Avengers, Part Two: As Time Goes By
by theicemenace
Summary: Part Two - After going missing during a routine mission, Clint Barton is found barely clinging to life. His physical injuries will heal, but he bears more wounds than just the body. His mind and his relationship with Naomi are traumatized. Will either one ever fully recover?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Yes, Part Two is named after the song and the British comedy of the same title. When you read the story, you'll get why this title was chosen.

2012 winner of NaNoWriMo contest and exclusively Beta'd by the wonderful ladygris_._

Thanks,

~Sandy

**Avengers**

**As Time Goes By**

**Chapter 1**

It was Christmas Eve Eve when Naomi arrived at her mother's home. Night had fallen and it had grown much colder, though she wasn't sure if the cold was external or emanated from the region of her heart. Every day that Clint stayed gone without was another day that she felt no warmth.

Taking her bags from the trunk, she stepped onto the stoop and knocked on the door. It was opened by Francine though her mother was just coming down the stairs. Naomi dropped her bags on the floor and walked into Gina's arms.

Most mothers, especially the Italian ones, used food as a salve to the wounded heart. But not Gina DeLuca. For her, the best way to "make it better" for her adult daughter was to watch chick movies, listen to Alanis Morissette and drink the oldest and most exquisite of the wines in her wine cellar.

The DeLuca women moved the furniture from in front of the fireplace and spread a blanket down so they could play games, and by the end of the night, even Naomi was giggling.

When bedtime came, she was so tired she could barely make it up the stairs. Her mother, very wise and intuitive, knew her daughter wouldn't want to sleep in the same room she'd shared with the man who'd run out on her and had put her things in the room next to hers.

By morning, Naomi felt a little better about the situation and even helped with plans for the New Year's party.

**Several Days Later**

The young man entered the room with halting footsteps coming to stand in front of the desk. The chair was occupied by his superior, the one in charge of their activities within this region of the world. Small compared to some, but heavily populated with those who would prefer to make their living without the worry of paying taxes or that their work would be sanctioned by the local or federal government.

He waited patiently until the chair swiveled to face him, the coldness in the eyes making him quake inside. The fact that the man held a Persian cat in his arms made him want to laugh at the cliché of an evil genius fawning over an animal that he loved more than the humans who served him. "He's dead?"

"No, sir. But Dr. Romasky says that he's in a coma and unlikely ever to regain consciousness."

His response was immediate. "Take him away. Leave him on the side of the road at least one thousand miles from here. But before you do that, send me the one who did this. I gave orders that he was not to be permanently injured and the disobedience must be punished."

"Yes, sir."

Turning on his heel, he strode quickly down the corridor to the lift, rode it to the third basement level and scanned his card at the secured door at the end of the hall. Signaling two others, he led them to the only occupied cell. Unlocking it, he told his underlings, "Put him in the helijet. We're taking him for a ride."

They rushed to carry out his order, lifting the man between them, his feet dragging along the floor. At the helijet, they tossed him in the back and waited for their superior to arrive. A few minutes later he did and the aircraft took off.

It didn't take long to reach a stretch of deserted road he'd chosen. Ordering the pilot to hover, he rolled his now former prisoner to the hatch, slid the door open and shoved him out. He landed thirty feet below with a solid thump, a black case hitting the ground next to him. With a word, he ordered the pilot to return to base not once looking back or thinking about the man he'd just left to die.

~~O~~

Sitting at his desk, Phil again checked all the hospital, police and morgue reports for any word on his missing friend. He'd been performing the same task every day for weeks and still nothing. Clint Barton had been missing for more than a month. He'd been sent to do a three-day recon of the alleged compound of a consortium that had begun to slowly gain power within the US and parts of Mexico and Canada. There were even whispers of them moving into Cuba. They were into everything. Drugs, prostitution, weapons, protection, human trafficking, medical research, and many other activities. Even poaching and fishing in illegal waters off the coasts of North and Central America.

Barton had managed to get out a message just after he'd been found by the guards. He'd managed to convince them that all he wanted was a job. They'd given him a low level guard position from which he was able to observe their operation more closely.

However, the last communication with Barton had abruptly cut off in mid transmission meaning that he'd been made. Phil had thought that he would've been killed outright, but when his body didn't turn up right away, he had to rethink that scenario. The way this group operated, they would want everyone to know what they'd done. It fostered loyalty within the ranks and fear from the general population so the body would have been left in a conspicuous place. And each day that went by without hearing something, Phil lost a little more hope that his friend would be found alive.

Phil's computer beeped reminding him that he had a sparring session with Natasha. Groaning internally, he pushed away from the desk and bent down to retie his shoes making a mental note to stop at the med bay afterward. Each week they went without locating something about Barton, the Black Widow seemed to get angrier and angrier. She'd taken to prowling the ship at night instead of sleeping, and beating the crap out of anyone stupid enough to agree to spar with her. It got to a point where the other agents would run when they saw her coming, and in an unguarded moment, Phil had agreed to once again get the crap beat out of himself. It was the least he could do because it was his fault that Barton was missing. If he had tried a little harder to convince Fury that the young agent wasn't yet ready for this mission… But Phil knew differently. Barton _had_ been ready. Phil had simply wanted him to have the best education possible in order to do his job.

He was alone when he entered the gym going immediately to the set of quarterstaffs stacked in the corner. Choosing one of the length and weight that suited him best, he made a few practice swings while waiting for Natasha to arrive. The door behind him whooshed open and he glanced at the clock. "You're late, Tasha. That's a twenty point penalty."

"It's me, boss." One of their newest agents, Gabby Lewis, stood in the doorway, excitement rolling off of her in waves. Her partner, Troy Bishop, was laid up for at least a year after being shot during Naomi's rescue. Phil had been impressed with her handling of the rescue that he'd offered her a job. "We found him."

"Excuse me?"

"Agent Barton. We found him."

Tossing the staff aside, he joined her in the hall, both walking fast. "How?"

Lewis passed him a computer pad. "He was found on the side of the road outside a small town in New Mexico." She consulted the file. "Hondo Valley. A ranch foreman found him and he was airlifted to County General in Santa Fe. He's been in their ICU for more than two weeks."

"Why weren't we notified sooner?"

Her mouth opened and closed a few times. "He was labeled a John Doe because they weren't able to use fingerprints and his DNA is classified."

"What do you mean no fingerprints? That's impossible."

They reached his office, Lewis going to his workstation and bringing up the info on the large monitor hanging from the ceiling. "He was tortured. Not just once, but repeatedly. The ends of his fingers had been burnt to the point that the doctors don't think he will ever regain feeling in them. But you know Barton. He could surprise us all. As it is, when he heals, he'll be left permanently without fingerprints."

"The pain must be incredible. He won't like being under sedation. Says it muddies his thinking."

"I don't think that's a problem at the moment, sir." The info on the screen rearranged itself until a medical report took center stage. "Over the time he was missing, he sustained three broken, two dislocated and four cracked ribs, and a broken tibia. Most of his toes had been broken too. He's had a severe head trauma, each of his shoulders has been dislocated at least once, the right one when he fell or was thrown from a height of twenty to thirty-five feet. And that's not the worst of it. When he fell he sustained a fracture to his pelvis _and_ the L2 vertebrae meaning that he is partially paralyzed. There are also a host of scrapes, cuts and abrasions all over most of his body. Some due to the fall, but others were in various stages of healing when he was found."

"Let me see him."

Lewis shook her head. "It's not a pretty sight, boss." Phil just stared at the screen waiting. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

The screen blurred and a photo of a man swathed in bandages with a cast on his right leg, and wires and tubes being used to sustain his life. What could be seen of his face was unrecognizable. "How do we know it's actually him?"

"They found this." A second smaller photo grew into place beside the other. It was a photo of the black case that Barton took everywhere with him and contained his most prized possession: his bow and arrows. "They found his fake ID scattered on the ground near him. And inside the case was a note to him from Dr. DeLuca. Guess he was keeping it as a memento or something."

~~O~~

Against the wishes of Coulson and Fury, Natasha supervised the transfer of Clint from the hospital in Santa Fe to the helicarrier's med bay. She didn't really have to say much, her presence that for her.

Once his medical equipment had been connected to the med bay's systems, she drew a chair up next to the bed and wrapped her fingers around his wrist because his hands were still bandaged. He would come back from the brink, better and stronger. She would see to it, and they would go together to bring down whoever did this to him.

And not nearly as important, but still necessary to know, was what group worked out of the compound Clint had been doing recon on. There had been rumblings of a new conglomerate that was intent on pushing the smaller establishments out of business. Infiltration was her strong suit. She would speak to Fury about letting her take over Clint's original mission. Natasha felt a presence beside her and instinct told her it was Coulson.

"How's he doing?"

"Not nearly as well as he should be. I want to go after them, Phil. Make them pay for what they've done."

Coulson was already shaking his head. "Fury won't risk another agent so soon. Their defenses'll be up now that they know we're aware of their activities."

She huffed letting him know that this was not the end of the argument. She just chose not to continue it here. "Have you spoken to the doctors? What's their prognosis?"

"It's too soon to tell. Most of his injuries will heal, but we won't know if he has permanent brain damage until he wakes up."

Glaring, Natasha nudged Coulson with her foot. "It's good that you didn't say _if_ he wakes up, or I would've had to kick your ass."

Rocking on his toes, hand clasped behind his back, Coulson said, "I try to look on the bright side whenever possible. The fact that he's still alive after all he's been through means a lot. He's a fighter."

"He _will_ get better and come back stronger for it."

Coulson touched her on the shoulder giving it a slight squeeze. "I'm going to call Dr. DeLuca and let her know the situation."

"_I_ will handle all communication with Dr. DeLuca, Agent Coulson," Fury said from the doorway. He stepped into the room giving the man in the bed a long assessing glance. "What's his condition?"

"About the same. He started coming out of the coma during the transfer, but the doctors have determined that it would increase his chances of full recovery if he were to remain in a medically induced coma for at least another week."

Fury was silent so long that Natasha thought he'd left the room. "I want twice daily updates on his condition." He turned and strode away, the heels of his boots ringing on the deck.

Sitting back in her chair, Natasha looked up at Coulson. His expression, usually bland to hide what he was thinking and feeling, showed his worry for Barton. The two men would deny it categorically, but they had become friends since the young agent had been brought into the fold. It would've been hard for them not to get to know each other while Coulson oversaw Barton's training.

She'd been pleased that Coulson had taken such an interest in the younger man she had originally been sent to seduce for information, and it seemed to work for both of them. According to rumors, when Barton arrived at SHIELD he'd been a mannerless lout. Coulson had turned him into an agent in record time. Barton was a sponge soaking up information and using it to his full advantage. He had been underweight and malnourished when he arrived, but with exercise and proper nutrition, he'd become strong and very fit. He had physical strength in the beginning. With training and conditioning, he'd become even stronger.

The biggest change had been how he treated the people around him. Barton still retained that glint in his eyes that told you he was assessing your possibility as a "mark." Are you someone he can con, a sheep to be fleeced? He had made the mistake of thinking she would be taken in by his obvious charm, but she had been trained by the best to _be_ the best. Seduction was a tool of her trade and one of the things that made her good at her job. She could make a man forget that he had a wife and children at home, forget that he shouldn't be telling secrets to strangers, forget about anything but _her_.

And she was the last of her kind. All of the other Black Widows had been killed, locked away or "deprogrammed." She allowed a moment of sadness for her peers who would never again walk free, who would forever be kept out of the light. And when she was done, she got to her feet and bent down to place a kiss on Barton's forehead before leaving. "Be well, my friend."

~~O~~

Going back to his office, Fury stood for a long time in the middle of the room thinking. He'd told Coulson that he would contact Naomi DeLuca to inform her that Barton had been found and was in critical condition. But that would _not_ happen. He thought it best for all concerned that the relationship between the psychologist and the agent was severed. A clean break. He would allow her to think that he had gotten cold feet and had moved on. To that end, he would conveniently "forget" to make the contact.

Fury sat down at his desk and called up the reports he'd been reading when Barton was brought on board, picking up where he left off and giving no more thought to Naomi DeLuca than he had before.

**Ten Days Later**

It had been almost two months since Naomi had heard from Clint. She'd wanted so much to spend Christmas with him, her mother and their friends. And for all this time, she'd held out hope that he would at least call to let her know _why_ he'd left and never came back. But he didn't.

A small box sat on the table. She'd put his things he'd been left behind in it waiting for…she wasn't completely sure _what_ she was waiting for. When she found his pendant on the bathroom floor, it had heartened her. It obviously meant a great deal to him and if he hadn't planned on coming back, he wouldn't have left it behind.

With a deep sigh, she realized that it was time to let him go, to admit that he wasn't coming back. If he'd just told her up front that he didn't want to be with her anymore, she wouldn't have been fine with it, but it would've been some sort of closure, an ending of sorts that would keep her from continuing to wonder.

She didn't have to go through the box to know what was there. A couple of his T-shirts, a pair of pants, a razor, a pair of socks or rather two socks that didn't match, a paperback novel he'd been reading for class, a magazine for the big gun, the one he called a Glock, and two of his knives. They were small. She'd looked them up and found out they were called boot knives.

Setting the book and pendant aside, Naomi divided up the rest of the stuff. The clothing would go to the second-hand store up the street, the razor went into the trash with the mismatched socks, but when she got to the magazine and knives, she had no idea what to do with them. She didn't own a gun and wouldn't. The best bet would be to turn it over to the police and say she found it. If it had his prints on it maybe that would draw him or his cousin out. She remembered that Phil had admitted they weren't actually related, but he was still the only person she knew to try to contact for info.

And that gave her an idea. Clint was very protective of his weapons. What if the knives were registered somewhere? If she pawned them and Clint or Phil were looking for them, they would be alerted that they'd turned up.

Naomi tucked the knives and ammo into her purse, grabbed her coat, hat and gloves and headed for the nearest pawn shop. She told the owner that they were her ex-husband's and he owed her back child support. The man was sympathetic, but unable to give her more than fifty bucks. On her way out, she saw a glass case filled with a variety of handguns. Fingering the magazine in her pocket, she carefully inspected each one until she saw the one she wanted. She held the magazine up, pointing with the other hand. "That one. Does this fit it?"

"Yeah. That's a Glock twenty-two, full size, forty caliber Smith and Wesson with fixed sights and a ten plus one capacity."

"Um, okay. What else do you have that's similar?"

The man grinned sensing an imminent sale. "If this is the style you like, then we have the baby Glock. It's just like the twenty-two, but smaller. I can give ya a good deal if ya throw in that mag."

Naomi looked from baby Glock to the magazine she'd set on the counter. "I'll take it."

He reached under and brought out a form. "Just fill this out and in a few days you'll be set to go."

Taking the pen he offered, Naomi started to fill out the form that would allow her to carry a concealed weapon. She hadn't written more than her first name when she thought better of it. "Never mind. And keep the mag."

On the way home, she turned over the cash from the sale of the knives to a homeless man standing on the corner with a cardboard sign. Back at the apartment, she picked up her mail, sorting it as she climbed to the second floor. In with the bills and junk mail she found an envelope with the logo of one of the top psychological facilities in the country in the top left corner. It was put aside for later reading as she placed the pendant and book in her bedside table for safe keeping. When Clint first disappeared, she'd worn the pendant for a time, but now it was time to put it away.

She went to the kitchen to see what was for dinner, but found that nothing in her freezer looked appealing. She still hadn't learned to cook though Clint had tried on several occasions. So her only option was to have something delivered. She dialed the same Chinese place she and Clint had called on the nights he didn't want to cook or was too tired, ordered her usual and turned on the stereo to listen to music. It was time to get on with her life and letting go of him and his stuff was the beginning. The letter was the next step.

While she waited for her food to be delivered, she opened the envelope to find an airline ticket and a request for her to come to Denver for an interview. It was too late to call and confirm so she stuck the letter on the front of her refrigerator so she'd remember to do it the next day.

~~O~~

Natasha tried to go easy on Coulson, but it was difficult. Mitigating her anger was like trying to tell Superman not to be invulnerable to bullets. She managed not to knock him senseless all the way up until Dr. Carrington came in. Neither of them had expected to be interrupted-it was an unwritten rule that you didn't walk unannounced into a sparring session, especially when _she_ was one of the combatants. But when Coulson lost his focus at the intrusion, she accidentally smacked him with the end of her quarterstaff sending the agent tumbling against the padded wall. Both she and the doctor ran to his side. "Sorry, Phil."

Moaning, Coulson got to his knees then to his feet with Natasha's and Carrington's help. They walked him to the bench where he collapsed. She handed him a bottle of water staying with him just to be sure. "No problem. I just didn't zig _or_ zag when I should've done one or the other."

Smirking, Natasha rubbed salt in the wound. "And that has _always_ been your problem."

Coulson smiled though it was touched by pain. "Working on it." Carrington continued to hover though Coulson waved him away.

"Let me check you out, Agent Coulson."

His request was ignored. "Why are you _here_, Dr. Carrington?"

"You asked to be informed when Agent Barton regained consciousness."

Natasha's back stiffened as she and Coulson, their hearts pounding, walked quickly toward the exit. She wanted to rush, to get there quickly in order to see for herself that her friend was awake. "When?"

"About an hour ago. I wanted to run a few tests before calling you."

Making a "hurry up" motion with his right hand, Coulson asked, "And?"

"I would prefer you see for yourself. He began reacting to pain stimuli and sounds several hours ago. His pupils are equal and reacting normally to light, and his breathing has become more regular. Most of his injuries are healing quite nicely. Much faster than we would have expected considering the shape he was in when he first arrived. The cast on his right leg will be coming off in a few days and his physical therapy can begin. The dead skin from the burns is being sloughed off leaving new pink skin underneath. His ribs, however, are still rather sore. Because of the pain from the burns, we're keeping him heavily medicated."

"Has he said anything?"

"Some. He's tried to speak, but the medication and the brain trauma have left him mildly aphasic. It'll get better with therapy, but we won't know if he'll make a full recovery until we can do a full mental and physical evaluation."

"How long before that can happen?"

Carrington shrugged. "We'll just have to take it one day at a time."

The three colleagues arrived at the med bay just as a snarl of frustration preceded a glass flying through the air to land at their feet spraying water all over the floor.

"You can throw things all you want, Agent Barton, but that won't get you a cheeseburger, pizza, steak, cookies or anything else solid until the doc gives the order." The nurse, a man six feet and muscular, poured another glass of water and added a straw. "Drink. It'll help your throat feel better. And if you're a good boy, we'll get you some juice later."

"Get doc n-now! W-w-want to s-s-see him."

Smiling, Coulson crossed his arms and turned to Carrington. "I should've warned you that he's a very…impatient patient."

"I had noticed, but I'll make a note in his chart just the same, though I doubt it'll be necessary. He has quite the reputation already."

Coulson walked slowly to the bed and waited for Barton to finish sipping water while glaring at the nurse. With a glance, Coulson dismissed the nurse, Barton's eyes burning a hole in the man's back before finding Coulson's. The crinkling of his forehead in confusion pulling at the cuts that were still healing. "Hello, Agent Barton. How are you feeling?"

"Wh-why you callin' me A-agent B-b-barton? An' who-who _are_ you? Where's B-Barney?"

~~O~~

Fury arrived in time to hear Barton's halting attempt at speech. The dismay and disappointment on Coulson's face that Barton didn't remember him saddened the director. But to give the agent credit, he didn't allow it to show.

"My name is Special Agent Phil Coulson. I'm an agent for Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division."

"St-strat-t-tegic…"

"SHIELD." Barton's lips moved silently and he looked inward to match the words with his memory. "But don't worry about that. It'll all come back to you eventually." He glanced around when Fury cleared his throat and Natasha stepped into Barton's line of sight. "I'll leave you to Natasha's tender mercies. We're glad that you're awake, Clint."

There was no response from the man on the bed because he had just seen the Black Widow. From the doorway, Fury watched Barton's eyes drop down to her feet and make their way slowly back up to her face. If he'd done it while in full possession of his faculties, Dr. Carrington would now be treating Barton for multiple bruises, cuts and contusions, but it looked like the Widow was inclined to give her friend some latitude. For now. No promises about later.

Out in the hall, Coulson stopped and looked back at the door. "Sir, I confess I'd hoped that he wouldn't have amnesia."

"False hope, Agent Coulson."

"Yes, sir." Fury left Coulson standing in the hall, striding away from the second saddest sight he had ever seen.

~~O~~

"…eighteen, nineteen, twenty." Bishop grunted in pain as he finished the last rep of the exercises given to him by the physical therapist. His left shoulder had caught the second blast from Gina DeLuca's shotgun. She hadn't been prosecuted for discharging a firearm inside the city limits because officially, the incident at the church never happened.

Now he had to pay the price for her mistake with months and months of therapy, physical and mental. It hadn't taken long for him to get approval from Joan Erickson to return to work, but the surgeon refused to allow him to do more than drive a desk. The man was being overcautious and it annoyed Bishop to no end.

Lewis had been to see him just last week to let him know that Barton had been found. Another annoyance. Bishop had been an agent with the FBI for five years applying every year to SHIELD and being turned down each time. And along comes some hotshot whose only real skill seemed to be shooting a bow and arrow. _Lame,_ as the kids said these days.

Making his way to the kitchen, he shoved a frozen dinner in the microwave, set the timer and went to the 'fridge for a bottle of beer. His left arm was still painful and the action of twisting the top off sometimes pulled on the still healing wound just above his clavicle. He held the bottle in his left hand and used a pair of pliers to open the bottle. Tossing the pliers and the cap on the counter, he took dinner from the microwave, slid it onto a plate, grabbed a fork and returned to the living room to eat.

Before he'd even taken one bite, coughing wracked his body so hard that bile traveled up his esophagus and into the back of his throat. He hurried to the bathroom to spit it out and was more than a little dismayed to see blood. This thing with his shoulder had taken most of his attention and he'd neglected to call the doctor and make an appointment as he'd told Lewis he would.

After rinsing his mouth and brushing his teeth, he wasn't hungry any longer. Instead of going back to the living room, he lay down on the bed fully dressed and went to sleep.

~~O~~

His employers were extremely happy with the completion of his most recent contract. His job had been to remove the daughter's government agent boyfriend, Clint Barton. What better way to do that than to have him assigned to recon then made as an agent?

But it turned out that he had a strength of will they hadn't counted on and hadn't been able to circumvent. He'd been starved, beaten and tortured for weeks without breaking. In all that time, he had continued to stick to his story, that his name was Marlow Fenwick, a former construction worker from Abilene, Kansas. The only thing he would tell them was that his grandmother had won numerous prizes for her sweet potato pie. Had even recited the recipe complete with directions for making a flaky crust.

One of his guards had gotten fed up with his non-answers and had hit Barton so hard he'd fallen into a coma from which their doctor said he would never recover. But even after he'd been left for dead, the man had refused to die and was at this moment recovering onboard the helicarrier.

At least they'd managed to separate Barton from Naomi DeLuca. Not the best ending, but it worked. He didn't know why breaking them up was such a big deal and didn't really care as long as he got paid. The master plan for his life was on schedule. He was a patient man. In just a few years, he'd have everything he ever wanted.

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Yes, Part Two is named after the song and the British comedy of the same title. When you read the story, you'll get why this title was chosen.

2012 winner of NaNoWriMo contest and exclusively Beta'd by the wonderful ladygris_._

Thanks,

~Sandy

**Avengers**

**As Time Goes By**

**Chapter 2**

Clint awakened to strange noises and light and people talking. They were talking to him, but most of it made no sense. Why were they calling him "Agent Barton"? Why was he in the hospital? Was he sick? And where was Barney? The mean nurse had tried to give him water, but he was hungry and wanted a corn dog. Stanley's corn dogs were the best! After a while, he was given some juice then he went back to sleep still confused because no one would tell him what happened.

A man and a lady had come in for a while then that other man, the scary one with the eye patch, had just looked at him then left. He didn't like it when people stared. His mom had told him that wasn't polite. He must've been hurt really bad because his hands were bandaged and hurt all the time. All through his lower half too. Did he fall out of that big tree in the yard? The doctors at the orphanage were nice enough, but they wouldn't let the kids have any fun. He'd gotten into trouble lots of times for climbing the tree, but it had been worth it. He would go as high as he could and just sit there watching everything, daydreaming that he and his brother were adopted by a family and taken away to live with them.

The next time Clint woke up, another lady came in after he'd had some Jell-O and broth. Said she was something called a speech therapist. He didn't know what that meant, but when she was gone, he was able to talk a little better. He liked her and tried to do what he was told, but it was boring.

And he couldn't remember stuff. People's names, what things were called, places. After a few days, it wasn't as hard to remember, but they wouldn't tell him where Barney was or why he hadn't come to see him. Before mom and dad died, Barney would read to him at bedtime. At the orphanage, they weren't allowed to do that. Instead, a lady with white hair would read to the group of twenty kids under her care.

The nurse turned out the light and left him alone. He was tired _and_ excited. Soon he would get the cast off his foot and he would be able to get up and go for a walk instead of having that other guy make him exercise in bed. And that made him wonder why his feet and hands were so big. And where he'd gotten the scars on his legs and chest.

Too tired to think anymore, Clint closed his eyes and went to sleep.

~~O~~

"How're you feeling today, Clint?"

The younger man peered at Phil with mild confusion. "Okay, I guess. Um, Phil, right?"

"Yes." Though still very weak, he was getting better a little every day. The healing of his brain was also making some progress. When he first woke up from the coma he had thought he was still a child and living in the orphanage. Now he had advanced to his teens.

"You sure Buck hasn't been around? I was s-s-supposed to have my first show last week."

It pained Phil to do so, but he'd been told that for the time being, they would tell the month and day, but not the year. Just let him remember on his own and he would eventually find himself in the present with the rest of them. Unfortunately, that also meant that soon Clint would be asking about Naomi, and Phil didn't have the answers he was looking for because he'd been forbidden by Fury to contact her again. "I'm sure."

He also couldn't tell Clint that he'd tracked Buck Chisholm down and found that the man had died years ago. Adult Clint would remember soon enough.

"Ya know this is the w-weirdest hospital. If feels like we're flying or something, but that's kinda dumb, don't ya think? How can a hospital fly?"

Smiling, Phil conceded that Clint had a point. With the technology that had been available when Clint was a teen, an aircraft the size of the helicarrier would've been impossible. "A fanciful notion indeed."

Clint snorted. "You talk f-funny sometimes."

"So I'm told."

Phil walked around to the side of the bed, Clint's eyes following his movements. "Ya think I can get my…my, um…bow and-and…"

"Arrows?"

"Yeah. Buck says I gotta practice every day so I don't lose my mojo."

He patted Clint on the shoulder. "I'll see what I can do."

"C-c-can I ask ya somethin'?" Clint looked down at his lap seeming to be embarrassed.

Leaning on the bed's rails, Phil smiled. "Sure."

Looking left and right, Clint leaned forward as if what he wanted to say was a big secret. "I need to call somebody, but _they_ won't let me." Clint always referred to the medical personnel as "they."

Though he knew the answer, Phil had to ask for appearances sake. "Who do you need to call?"

"That's the _weird_ part. I don't 'member. It's…it's like I can see her face…" he waved his left hand beside his head, "…but I can't. Know what I mean?"

"I do. So who do you think this person is?"

Again he looked around, lowering his voice, even blushing just a little. "I _think_ it's my girlfriend."

"Oh?"

"Yeah." He smiled, shy again. "I had this dream the other night that she, you know, kissed me. We were standin' by my truck. And _that's_ w-w-weird too 'cause I'm not old enough to drive." Nodding, Phil just let him talk about the dream thinking that it was a good thing that all he remembered at the moment was the kissing and not the more private events. "…and then it got _scary._"

"Scary how?"

Shifting in the bed, the archer's expression changed. He lost his embarrassment, his eyes clouding over with distress. "I-I was chasin' this g-guy and…I killed him with my bow and arrow. I promise you, I've _never_ _ever_ done that before. Never even shot an _animal._ Why would I hurt a person?"

Patting Clint's hand where it lay in his lap, Phil gave it a comforting squeeze giving no thought to the fact that the adult Clint would never have permitted it. "Try not to worry about it."

"Okay. I'm kinda tired. G-gonna take a nap." The nurse came in to help the younger man get ready then Phil pulled the covers over him. "Um, Phil, when's that pretty lady coming back? I like her. She tells me stories about this guy she knows who's some kinda super spy."

"What's his name?"

"Hawkeye. Says I-I remind her of him 'cause I can shoot a bow and arrow. He's really good and so am I." He was very proud of his accomplishments and had always been though as an adult, he seemed to just take them for granted. When he was able to begin practicing again, that wouldn't happen. He doubted the adult Clint would take anything, least of all his continued existence, for granted ever again.

After making sure he had the call button, Phil turned out the light. "I'll let Natasha know you were asking for her."

~~O~~

Over the next few weeks, Clint made slow and steady progress until he had regained most of his memories. The aphasia was nearly gone though he still had occasional moments when he was unable to remember a word or a name, frustrating him and those who cared about him. He'd once gotten so angry at not being able recall Natasha's name that he'd thrown a plate of food across the room. Something that was happening on a fairly consistent basis.

Well, he _had_ been making progress. The past two weeks had been an act of futility when it came to his physical therapy. The doctors couldn't explain why it all just stopped. His leg ached when it rained as did both shoulders and his pelvis. Still, he got up to walk twice a day no matter what. It was very painful, but he pushed through the pain refusing to give up.

And though the doctors had tried to make him understand that his recovery would take as long as it took, he still became impatient with the doctors, his friends and especially himself. He had finally remembered Coulson and his recruitment into SHIELD. But there was a hole in his memory that refused to be filled. It began during his training as an agent and ended when he awakened in the med bay. The more he tried to remember, the more frustrated he became. There were conflicting feelings associated with that empty space. Kindness, frustration, anger, annoyance…love. And _that's_ what confused him more than anything.

His dreams at night ran the gamut from happy to sad to frightening. He kept seeing himself killing a man over and over, usually with his bow. Sometimes stabbing him in the chest with an arrow as if he were a vampire.

Faces swam in and out of his recollection, flitting here and there. Names too, but not always together. He would remember someone's name today, but not be able to bring it to mind the next. There was one name he couldn't remember at all.

The smiling face of a beautiful woman was the one he tried the hardest to recall because the emotions that surrounded her were very pleasant. Extremely pleasant. On more than a few occasions he dreamed of making love with her. Others she would be sitting in a tub filled with bubbles telling him she loved him. But when he tried to bring to mind the moment he'd told her he felt the same, his body became chilled and his mind went blank, completely focusing on something else, something more ominous…and painful. So painful that he would become dizzy, his head would throb and his mind shied away. It was as if he'd done something he should be ashamed of, but wasn't. Or something had been done _to_ him.

Clint didn't know how that could be. Killing without remorse? That just wasn't a part of his nature. Or was it? One minute he was absolutely certain he could never do such a thing and the next he saw himself doing it. The memories were clear as day one moment and fogged over the next.

All but the first time he'd been sent to kill someone. On that occasion, he'd seen something through the scope of his rifle that made him pause. It had been as if she were challenging him, daring him to pull the trigger that would end her life. Or begging him. He hadn't been certain.

He wouldn't take the shot if there was any doubt, and he'd had doubts about the righteousness of this particular kill. He'd been told his target was guilty of killing without remorse or giving thought to the guilt or innocence of the target. She'd been a mercenary and nothing more. Her services went to the highest bidder. If it was wrong for her to do it, how could it be any less so for him?

The next time he'd been sent to perform an assassination, there had been no doubts in his mind whatsoever because he'd seen the evil himself, saw the madness in the man's eyes and the malevolence in his soul. Clint had seen himself in the man's soul, or how he would've been if he hadn't found a way out. If he hadn't been saved by a man named Phil Coulson.

But it was always there lurking beneath the surface waiting, watching, looking for the smallest crack in his façade into which long talons would dig until he was pulled apart and remade into something else. It made every day a constant struggle to stay on the side of decency and honor.

And every day he did was a blessing.

~~O~~

"Please join me, Agent Coulson." Fury nodded at the screen hanging from the ceiling in front of his desk. As soon as the agent had come to his side, he called up the most recent medical report on Barton. "Have you seen this?"

"Yes, I have, Director."

"Then you know that Barton's recovery has stalled. His memory still has not returned to a point that it can be trusted, and his physical recuperation is slow."

Beside him, Coulson shifted his feet, a signal that he was uncomfortable with the conversation. Fury didn't blame him, but it had to be done. It was going on three months since he'd been retrieved from the hospital in Santa Fe. "I know. Agent Romanoff and I are taking turns talking to him, trying to help him. What you don't see in that report, sir, is that Agent Barton _will_ recover completely. He'll not stand for anything less than being one hundred percent. And unfortunately, that means…"

"I _know_ what it means."

"Then if you would permit me to…"

Fury let the glare from his good right eye hit Coulson square between the eyes. "As I have told you before, that is _not_ an option. It was _my_ decision and it stands. That name is not to be mentioned in Barton's presence. Is that clear?"

"Very clear, Director." Hands clasped behind his back, Coulson's disapproval came through loud and clear. "May I go now, sir?"

"You may. And remember what I said."

Coulson took a deep breath as if preparing for a long speech, but he didn't say a word. He simply turned and left the room.

~~O~~

Out in the hall, Phil punched the wall feeling his knuckles pop. It was uncharacteristic of him to allow his emotions to get the better of him. He regretted it immediately, and not just because his fingers ached. No, it was because, when he looked up, Natasha stood in front of him, arms crossed and wearing her, I-know-how-you-feel-and-what're-we-gonna-do-about-it expression.

He took a moment to admire her restraint her strength of both mind and body. Just like most men, he found her very attractive and seductive, but still thought of her as he would a sister. "Sorry you had to see that."

"I'm not." She walked toward him. "I take it you talked to Fury."

"Yes. He's concerned that Barton is not making the progress he should be." Phil started walking and Natasha kept pace with him.

"So what's the plan?"

"The plan is to help him in any way we can." He stopped in front of a storage compartment, pressed his thumb to the reader and a moment later, they heard the click of the lock. Inside were several crates that held Barton's personal items that Phil had taken from his apartment in New York. He opened the first one, rooted around in it a while then handed it to Natasha, taking the second heavier one for himself.

"I thought Fury ordered us not to talk about…"

Shrugging, Phil strode purposefully down the hall with Natasha on his heels. "And I won't. But if he finds out on his own…"

They stopped outside Barton's room and Phil used his elbow to announce their presence. The door opened right away, Barton scowling at them from his wheelchair. "We brought some of your stuff. We thought it might help jog your memory."

"I don't _want_ it. I just want to get out of here."

Phil and Natasha both ignored him setting the crates on his bed. He opened the smaller crate and nodded at the book lying on top. "I know you're bored. This will help."

"But…"

"Read it anyway, Barton." Somehow, Natasha got through to him. When no one else could, she always found a way. Probably because she refused to take no for an answer. "You might find something useful between the pages."

And before Barton could protest, they left him alone. Keeping her voice low, Natasha asked, "Think it'll work?"

"I guess we'll find out."

~~O~~

Clint watched his friends come in, leave a bunch of junk then go again disregarding everything he said. He may not remember, but he was quicker on the uptake than they gave him credit for. Or maybe he wasn't. He wasn't sure anymore. Memories came and went, more of the bad ones staying than the good ones, but they did stay, moving and sorting themselves in his brain until he had a better idea of the timeline involved than he had a few weeks ago. There were still gaps, some of which the doctors said might never be filled. And that wasn't okay in his book, but trying to force himself to recall events that his mind wanted to keep hidden had done no good.

But he did know one thing. There was something in one of these boxes that they wanted him to see. Something that could, maybe, jumpstart his memory. Give it a quick kick in the ass to get it going.

Opening the first crate, he peered into it with confusion. Right on top was a book, not a first edition to go by the look of the cover and bindings, but an early one. _Great Expectations_. The title meant nothing to him beyond the obvious. He set it aside and pulled the rest of the items out one by one, holding each in his hands or up to the light to see if he found a memory to match it. Most of the items he did, but there was still that book.

When he had removed everything and had found a place for them, he sat there looking around the room hoping for an epiphany. None came so he picked up the book to shove it in the desk and a small stack of photos and papers fell out.

The first photo was of two boys, both with sandy hair and blue-gray eyes. He turned it over but there was nothing on the back but a date almost twenty years in the past.

Photo number two was even more puzzling. It was of himself and a young woman. A very beautiful young woman, African-American, with brown eyes and a sweet smile. He had his arms around her, the two of them looking very cozy. Handwritten on the back were the words "Clint & Naomi, Thanksgiving" and the year. Last year.

Clint and the girl were also in the next photo with an older woman who had the same bright smile as the girl. They were on the sofa and he and the girl were holding in their laughter. The woman was between them rolling her eyes. On the table in front of them were the remains of what looked like pecan pie. Something tickled at the back of his mind, but when he tried to grab hold of it, it flitted out of reach again.

He was certain or at least as certain as he could be that this was the girl in his dreams, but he just couldn't bring it all into focus. Not her name, not anything that they had done together, and definitely not them falling in love. Did he love her? Or was that just an idea that had been put into his head by the photos?

On a scrap of paper was a phone number and he guessed that it was a cell number. Picking up the phone, he dialed and got the out of service message. Just as he was giving up for the night, he found a CD with a note wrapped around it and secured with a rubber band.

Rolling over to the stereo system, he dropped the CD in the player and adjusted the volume. He closed his eyes and let the music flow around him, but the song wasn't familiar. Huffing out loud to the empty room, he unfolded the paper. It was a handwritten note.

_Clint,_

_Went to the grocery store for supplies. Be back soon._

_Yours,_

_Naomi_

Just then another song came on and Clint's eyes closed again on their own. The note held in his right hand, he pressed the heel of his left hand against his forehead as his head started to throb. As if in a dream, he saw himself in a dimly lit room in the middle of the floor and in his arms was the girl in the photo. Into the room, he began to hum along. He glanced at the case for the name of the song. _Amazed_ by Lonestar.

And that's when it hit him. The girl in the photo. Her name was Naomi and he loved her. That wasn't the only thing that came back. Some of the other missing pieces fell into place as well.

He now remembered taking flying lessons, could see the controls in front of him, knew the function of each as he dropped into a tailspin, coming out of it just short of hitting the ground and veering back into the air to perform yet another stomach-dropping stunt only to receive an ass chewing from his instructor when he landed.

Rappelling down the side of a building, setting charges then getting the heck out of Dodge before they blew.

Learning to handle weapons of all types, throwing knives with pinpoint accuracy, archery lessons, being yelled at by his father in a drunken rage, taking on a bully who picked on the younger kids at the orphanage, cooking lasagna with Naomi, having Thanksgiving dinner with her mother and being hit on by a woman in a red dress whose name escaped him.

All these and more returned to him in an explosion of blinding pain behind his eyes. All but the incidents that led up to the mission where he had been injured. The doctors had told him many times that he might continue to have amnesia for the event and leading up to it. But that wasn't good enough for Clint. When he told Coulson he would be a hundred percent, he meant it.

The song stopped and he shut off the player with a snap of his wrist then went to the comm and dialed again. It was answered on the second ring. "It's Barton. Come to my quarters…yes _now!_" He shut the comm off and sat in his chair drumming on his thighs wanting to pace, but still unable to stand on his own. A chime beeped and he rushed to answer it.

Coulson stepped inside, his voice betraying his concern. "What's wrong?"

His blue-gray eyes flashing, Clint held up the photo of Naomi and he together. "_This_ is the woman in my dreams. I've described her to you repeatedly yet you never said a word. _Why_ didn't you tell me you knew who she was?" He was getting angry and took a deep breath to calm down.

"Dr. Hoffman advised us that it was best if your memories came back on their own."

"Then why did you bring all this _crap_ from my apartment?"

Cocking his head to the side, Coulson didn't rise to the bait of Clint's tone. "If something in this _crap_ helped you find your way back, then what's the problem?"

"The problem is you _knew!_ You knew it was her and didn't say a damn _thing._" Clint rubbed his aching head with his left hand. The fingertips had healed, but they were still tingly, like they'd fallen asleep. "I…I'm sorry. It's just that she's been down there wondering where I am for almost _six months._ _Please_ tell me you've talked to her."

~~O~~

Phil spread his hands to the side, glad that he could answer this question truthfully. "I've talked to her."

"When? How long ago?" Barton demanded.

With a sigh, Phil knew that Barton would go for nothing less than the full truth. "You told Naomi you would be gone three to four days. When you didn't come back, I called to let her know it would be a few more days. After that, Director Fury advised that _he_ would communicate with her going forward." A carefully edited truth. After all, there was no such thing as a lie. There was only expedient exaggeration.

Barton slanted a look at him. Parts of relief with less of the anger he had been displaying and muttering under his breath, "Thank God."

"I can't guarantee how much he's told her." Now Phil was lying through his teeth. Though Fury had taken on the responsibility of contacting Naomi DeLuca, he was certain the man had made not even one attempt at doing so since that day. But he had orders.

"I need to call her. Let her know I'm…"

He sat on the edge of Barton's bed. "What? That you were held captive and tortured for nearly a month? That you're still learning how to walk again? Clint, she _can't_ know what happened, how you were injured." Clint turned his head away, though out of embarrassment or irritation, he couldn't tell. "Let's say she forgives you for being gone all this time and you get back together. What will you tell her if you're injured again? What if you're killed? What would _I_ tell her?"

~~O~~

Reaching for the small scrap of paper, Clint handed it to Coulson. "Is this her number?"

Coulson barely glanced at it. "Yes, it is."

"I tried to call. It's out of service."

"That's because your comm is programmed to only call internally. Any other numbers will get you that same message."

Knowing that what Coulson said was only his way of helping to let Clint down as easy as possible, the archer nodded. "Go talk her for me. Let her know I'm okay, but that I won't be able to see her again." Though he had to be surprised at what Clint was asking, Coulson did manage to keep his reaction to a minimum.

"Let me see if I have this right. You want me to lie to her _and_ you want _me_to break up with her for you."

With a snort of humor and a wry twist of his lips, Clint said, "Yeah."

Leaning forward, his elbows resting on his thighs, hands clasped between them, Coulson seemed to think it over. "One question."

"What?" Huffing, Clint rolled his eyes. All pretense of tranquility vanished as Coulson sat up, his eyes going narrow. Was that anger? What did _Coulson_ have to be upset about?

"Are you _out_ of your ******* _mind?_"

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **2012 winner of NaNoWriMo contest and exclusively Beta'd by the wonderful ladygris_._

Thanks,

~Sandy

**Avengers**

**As Time Goes By**

**Chapter 3**

"Are you _out_ of your ******* _mind?_" At Coulson's outburst, Clint was unable to form a response so the agent continued. "You know absolutely nothing about women, do you?"

That statement got Clint's ire up. "I've known plenty of women and…"

"That's not the same as knowing _about _women. How they think, what they want, how they feel, what they're _really_ saying."

"What're you getting at?" Clint pushed a hand through his hair making a sound of frustration.

Well, it was mutual. He claimed to be his friend. Why couldn't he do this _one thing_ for him?

Getting to his feet, Coulson went over to lean against the wall. "Here's an example. You come home after a long day of fighting bad guys and she's in the living room with a glass of wine. There's nothing cooking. What do you say?"

"Since her idea of cooking is nuking a TV dinner or ordering from Wong's, my answer would be 'What should I make for dinner?'"

Coulson chuckled. "That is actually a very good answer. So you have _that_ part figured out. What if you come home and she's angry or crying or dancing with glee or says 'we have to talk'?"

"For the talking, I would ask her to tell me what's bothering her."

"And…"

Clint frowned at him in confusion. "And _what?_ And 'I'll make dinner' or 'let's eat out'?"

His hands now in his pockets, Coulson just shook his head ruefully. "Another good answer, but what if the stakes were higher? Clint, you've been gone for six months. It will be another month, possibly more before you're well enough to leave the helicarrier under your own steam and a full year from the day we found you before you'll be even close to that hundred percent."

"So?"

"So what do you expect when you do see her again?"

And that's when Clint finally understood. "I suppose she's not going to be happy that Fury's the one who's been giving her updates."

"That's putting it mildly. The point to all of this is if you're not going to attempt to rekindle your relationship, you need to bring it to an end. Give her closure."

Clint knew that Coulson was waiting for a response. But he couldn't come up with one. What could he say? The man was right. It was up to _him_ to cut the cord. He was the best person to deliver the bad news. "Yeah, I know."

"Now if you don't mind, I have a date with my pillow. I'll be briefing Agent Romanoff in the morning for her next mission."

"Good luck." Clint said it with a bit of sarcasm. One always had to be on their toes around the Black Widow.

Just before the door closed, Coulson said, "Same to you." Clint would need it.

**Three Weeks Later**

Clint climbed stiffly from the driver's seat of his truck. Someone, he guessed Coulson, had put it in storage after he'd gone missing during the mission. He still didn't remember details of the op or how he'd been injured and reading the doctor's report on the probable origins of his injuries didn't help.

He reached inside the cab for the bouquet of flowers he'd bought on the way and was still of two minds on whether he should've done so or not. More than likely, he would end up with them thrown back in his face. But at least he tried.

To alleviate the stiffness, he avoided the lift and took the stairs to the second floor. When he reached Naomi's door, he hesitated before knocking. He waited, but there was no answer. However, Serene was home.

Naomi's neighbor and best friend stepped out into the hall carrying a box, her eyes going very wide when she saw him. "Clint!" She dropped the box and threw her arms around him, and that's when he noticed the drastic change in her appearance.

"Serene. Good to see you again."

She moved back and before he could defend himself, she punched him in the shoulder. He counted himself lucky that it had fully healed from the repeated dislocations that he still couldn't remember. "Where the _hell_ have you been?"

"Haven't been able to get back before now." He looked down at her swollen belly. "This is new."

Serene allowed him to change the subject knowing that she wasn't going to get answers today. "Yeah. Just a couple more months to go. Donny and I are moving into a house this week." She bent over to get the box she'd dropped and he rushed to help.

"Where's this going?"

"The dumpster." She noticed the flowers in his other hand. "You're here to see Naomi."

Clint shrugged and smiled. "Yeah. But does _she_ want to see _me?_"

"Hmph!" She went into the apartment gesturing for him to follow. "She's gone. Moved out of state three months ago. And I can tell you right now that there aren't enough flowers on the _planet_ to keep her, or me, from kicking your ass."

"I'm sorry."

Waving a hand, she went into the kitchen and started taking things from inside the cabinets and stacking them in a box. He set down the flowers and box and started helping. "Don't say you're sorry to _me!_ You need to say it to _her._ It broke her heart when you left without a word."

"Do you think it did any less to me?" He leaned his hips against the counter and crossed his arms. "I loved her, Serene. Still do. But the work I do, it's very…I-I just can't be the man she needs me to be."

"But you could've called, written her a letter, stuck a sticky note on her door, _something_ to let her know that you were okay."

_But I wasn't okay._ Looking down at his feet, Clint sighed. "No, Serene, I couldn't have. And no, I can't tell you why."

"Look, Clint, I'd love to have you stay for dinner so I can beat the entire story out of you, but Donny will be home soon. He's still _really_ mad at you on Naomi's behalf and he might hit you."

"And I would _let_ him. But I take it that you're telling me this because he's due home in a few minutes."

Serene walked him to the door. "You could find her easily enough, but I'd just let it go, Clint. She's moved on and you should too."

He nodded and leaned down to give her a kiss on the cheek and handed her the flowers. "Thanks. Um, these are for you and congratulations on the baby."

On the way to the truck, he tossed the box in dumpster. To him it was a metaphor for the end of his life with Naomi and the university. The end of him being just a regular guy. Brushing the dust from his hands, he got into the truck and drove away.

~~O~~

Serene watched Clint's truck pull out of the parking lot and disappear into the twilight. Now that spring was here, the nights were getting warmer, the sun staying around longer. She returned to her packing, carefully wrapping each dish and glass in paper before placing it in the box. When she'd heard the knocking next door, the last person she expected to see was Clint standing there holding a bouquet of flowers. She was still debating whether or not to call Naomi when the front door opened.

"Honey? I'm home! And I brought Chinese."

"Oh, great! I'm starving!"

Donny kissed her. "Mmm. I missed you." He leaned down close to her belly. "And Daddy missed you too." Then he saw the flowers Serene had put in a plastic jug that was destined for the recycle bin. "Did I forget something?"

"No. Those are-_were_ for Naomi."

The genial expression Donny had sported when he came in was wiped away. "He's not still here, is he?"

"Gone."

"Did you give him hell?"

Letting herself down onto one of the dining room chairs, Serene moaned in relief as the stress was taken off of her back. "Started to, but he looked so…sad I couldn't."

"But he deserved it after what he did."

"He thinks so too, if you wanna know the truth. I just didn't have the heart." She pushed a wonton around her plate. "I think he was badly injured and is just now getting back on his feet. That's why he didn't come back. Doesn't explain why he didn't call though." Donny tapped her plate with his chopsticks to get her attention giving her an inquiring look. "I watched him walk to the dumpster then to his truck and he was limping. He tried to hide it, but he had to be in pain."

Donny served Serene then himself from the food he'd brought home for dinner, again leaning down to talk to her belly. "How about that, sweetie? Mommy's just a big, ole softy."

~~O~~

Driving down the road, Clint had no real idea of where he was going. In all the scenarios he'd envisioned about their reunion, Naomi not being there hadn't crossed his mind. After a while, he pulled to a stop and turned off the engine. Looking up at the neon sign perched over the restaurant's entrance, he saw that he'd come to the hamburger place where he and Naomi had their first date.

He got out and slammed the door then jaywalked to the entrance, the dampness in the air making his right leg and hip ache. Inside, it was just as he remembered it. Loud, noisy and filled with people living their lives. He cut through the restaurant to the bar, took a booth just being vacated, ordered a beer and nursed it for the next hour. The server, a girl who was too young to look so cynical about life, brought him a bowl of pretzels. He munched on them for a while then ordered another beer.

Normally Clint didn't have more than one or two, a legacy from his father, but tonight he had a third, just to be contrary. He was nearly done when a very pretty girl barely old enough to be drinking stopped at his table.

"Hi. My name's Ronnie."

He took in her tight fitting jeans, even tighter top with thin straps, and seductive smile. Her hair was long, brown and wavy, like Clint's first real crush, Daisy Duke. "Clint."

Taking that as an invitation to join him, she sat down making sure to lean forward in such a way as to showcase her ample cleavage. They couldn't possibly be real, he decided because they didn't jiggle when the rest of her did. That thought startled him making him wonder who had told him that. "You look a little lonely. Mind some company?"

Clint recognized the fact that Ronnie was right. At this very moment, he was lonelier than he'd ever been and he didn't like it. Never had, but now that Naomi was officially a part of his past, it was bad enough that he seriously considered tracking down his brother just to see what he's been up to since the age of eighteen. But that wouldn't help him tonight. He needed to be close to someone. To have some sort of human contact. Coulson and Natasha were great, but he needed more than friendship. Relaxing back in his seat, he gave the young woman his most disarming smile. "Not at all, Ronnie."

She set her jacket in the seat beside her and eyed his beer. He took the hint and got her one. "Ronnie is short for Veronica. But I really, really hate it." Her drink arrived and she gulped half of it down right away. "I don't know what my parents were thinking when they named me that. Though I guess it could've been worse. They coulda named me Betty."

Clint didn't understand the reference, but didn't say so. "I think Veronica is a beautiful name."

Ronnie actually giggled. "That is so sweet. And _you_ can call me Veronica. I mean, if you want to that is."

"What do you do for a living, Veronica?"

"I'm going to school right now, but as soon as I graduate from Miss Mona's School of Beauty, I'm going to work for one of those fancy salons at the mall. That's also why I had my boobs done. Mine were so small the guys barely gave me a first look never mind a second one." He nodded as if he understood her need to mutilate her body for the sake of having men stare at her. "What do _you_ do?"

With a wry twist to his lips and the lift of his eyebrows, he said, "I'm an assassin."

That made Ronnie laugh out loud. She reached across the table and swatted him on the hand. "Listen to you, telling tales. I bet you do something really _boring_, like an accountant or insurance. Something like that."

Pointing a finger at her, Clint gave her another grin. "_You_ are a very smart girl, Veronica."

Again, she giggled, this time slapping a hand over her mouth to keep from spitting a mouthful of beer on him. "Nobody has _ever_ called me smart. Even my daddy says I'm dumber 'n a bag of rocks."

"Half of being smart is knowing what you're dumb about."

Ronnie's jaw-dropping look of awe made him almost sorry he'd teased her because she'd taken him seriously. "That is so…spiritual."

Tired of the banal talk, Clint got to his feet, tossed a few bills on the table then reached over Ronnie to get her jacket. "Let's get out of here."

"What did you have in mind?" Her coy glance told the story.

"Why don't we go to your place?"

She was on her feet so fast she almost fell. Clint caught her with a hand on her arm then helped her into her jacket. Out in the parking lot, Ronnie led him to a beat up Chevy Impala. "I'm just down the street."

Despite the aches in his still healing body, Clint jogged to his truck and waited for Ronnie to pull out of the parking lot then fell in behind her.

When they reached Ronnie's apartment, they barely got in the door before she was all over him. He matched her enthusiasm, the two of them leaving a trail of clothing from the door to the bedroom where he tumbled her onto the softness of the mattress before spending the next few hours blowing her mind.

The sun had just started to peek over the horizon when Clint crawled from under Ronnie's arm. He gathered his clothes up and went into the bathroom, coming out a few minutes later carrying his jacket and pushing a hand through his hair. His left hand went automatically to the small of his back checking for a weapon, but he hadn't been released to begin carrying again as yet, and understood their reasoning. While he'd regained much of his _muscle_ memory, he still had gaps in his memory that could make him a dangerous man under the right circumstances.

Letting himself out, he carefully closed the door so he wouldn't wake her afraid that if he did he'd have to listen to her talk again. _Man, that girl has a motor mouth!_

Taking the stairs to the first floor, he exited the building, crossed a brown patch of grass that had a few blades of green showing here and there, jumped in his truck and took off before he'd even put on his seatbelt.

When he first woke up and saw Ronnie beside him, both of them naked as the day they were born, he felt remorse for using her to alleviate his loneliness until his shoulder devil spoke up to remind him that he was no longer committed to Naomi or she to him. Not that they'd had formal commitment to start with. They were both free to do as they pleased with whomever they wanted. He wanted to blame Coulson, and for a while he had. But in the end he realized that it was no one's fault. The relationship between he and Naomi had been destined to fail in one way or another, and it was sort of a good thing it happened sooner rather than later.

The SHIELD helicarrier would be docked in Hudson Bay until fourteen hundred hours. That gave him time to visit a few old friends at the university. Then halfway there, he changed his mind. That part of his life was over. Time to cut the cord.

Clint returned to the garage where the truck had been stored. The owner's son, a young man in his early twenties, came out to greet him. Or rather greet his truck. The boy eyed the truck like a buzzard eyes a fresh kill. He tossed the keys and the boy caught them easily.

"Want me to store it again, Mr. Barton? I could wash it too, if you like."

"Whatever you want, Owen. It's yours. I'll send you the pink slip in a couple weeks."

Clint shoved his arms into his jacket and took off at a brisk walk in the direction of the bay, not even hearing Owen's whoop of joy. A city bus came along and he hopped on, taking a seat in the very back where he spent the ride just staring out the window as he severed the last tie to this chapter of his life.

~~O~~

The quinjet settled into its place in the hangar bay with barely a thump, the engines shut down and the doors whooshed open. And Natasha was standing there waiting for it. Clint was the last one off, still dressed as he had been the night before only to be faced with an annoyed Russian.

Clint's eyes wouldn't meet hers as she fell into step with him, hands clasped behind her back speaking to him in Russian. "Clint. Where have you been?"

"None of your damn business." She waited for him to look at her, but he didn't until she stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Why do you want to know?"

Shrugging as if she were not nearly as concerned as she felt, she said, "He was looking for you."

"Fury?"

"Who else?"

He started walking again though at a slower pace, his limp becoming more pronounced with each step. "What does he want?"

"What he always wants. You back in the field."

"Why were _you_ looking for me?"

Stopping at his door, she leaned on the wall, a secretive smile playing on her lips. "You know how I worry." He uttered an oath that she found hilarious coming from him. "To wish you a happy birthday."

Clint stopped in the doorway of his room. "My birthday's in September."

"Just wanted to see if you were listening." Pushing away from the wall, she took hold of his hand giving him a smile she hoped would tell him what he didn't want to hear. That she cared about him as more than a friend. He was the big brother she'd never had and always wanted. And like that brother they bantered, even called each other names. In Hungarian, she said, "Dumbass."

"Dirty gypsy," was his reply. To most people, it wouldn't have sound like much, but in Hungary, it was an insult.

Before the door closed, Natasha said with a smirk, "Don't forget to take a shower."

"Why?"

"You smell like a whorehouse, Barton. I hope she was worth it."

He slapped the inside control and the door closed on his final words. "Good-_bye_, Nat."

Clint sounded fine, almost like his old self though she'd never seen this side of him. The Clint _she_ knew wouldn't jump into bed with the first girl to wiggle her breasts in his face, but all the evidence pointed to him having done just that. At least he wasn't moping around the ship bringing everyone down like he had been since he'd returned to the fold. She would continue to keep an eye on him, just the same. As much as anyone on this ship, she knew what could happen if things started getting out of hand. Someone could get hurt. Physically or emotionally. And Clint couldn't afford either at the moment.

**Several Months Later**

**Düsseldorf, Germany**

Satisfied that the Stockholm op had been successfully completed, Clint and Natasha decided to take a couple of days in Düsseldorf for rest and relaxation before returning to the newly constructed SHIELD base. After checking into their hotel, they had dinner and went their separate ways. To Natasha, R&R meant sleeping and reading a good book with a glass of wine. To Clint it meant spending time on the archery range or any of a hundred other pursuits that allowed him to blow off steam.

When Natasha couldn't convince him to stay in with her and watch a recent film release on a pirated station in her room, she had washed her hands of him, slamming the door in his face. He'd chuckled at her volatile temper as he waited for the lift to take him to the lobby. There was a nightclub just a few blocks away that he enjoyed for the live music and the scantily clad waitresses.

He took a seat at the bar, ordered a beer and sat back to listen to the band. They were really quite good for a Lebanese Springsteen cover band. They'd just brought _Glory Days_ to a messy conclusion when a woman with blond hair and a short skirt sashayed past tossing a coquettish smile over her shoulder that challenged him to approach her. She joined a group of friends at a small table, crossing her legs to show off their shapeliness and the fact that she was wearing four-inch spiked heels.

Deciding that she was way too eager, Clint set his sights on someone else. He had taken his beer and headed her way when she turned around and he realized that it was his partner. Natasha had apparently followed him from the hotel. Not an easy task, but if anyone could do it, it would be her. But why she would choose tonight to join him in his trolling of the local talent, he didn't know.

He caught her eye, nodding to let her know he'd seen her. She returned the gesture then turned her back on him to speak to the man standing next to her. With a shrug, he had settled his right hip on the edge of his chair when he felt someone come up beside him. Instinct told him it wasn't Natasha, nor was it someone he might have to kill.

Clint painted on a smile, speaking to her in German. "Wondered how long it would take you to come my way."

She smiled, her eyes dropping to the bar then back to his. "After seeing you with that other woman, I wasn't sure I wanted to."

"She's an old friend."

"A former girlfriend?"

He sipped his beer and returned it to the coaster. "No." Taking her hand, he brushed his thumb over her knuckles. "Clint."

"Brigitte." Sliding off the chair, he let her have it. When she was comfortably seated, he offered to buy her a drink, but she refused. "Didn't make the long walk from my table just to have you buy me a drink."

Intrigued, he said, "Oh?"

"I was hoping you would like to go somewhere so we can get to know each other better."

"Best idea I've heard all day." Clint finished his beer, left a generous tip and exited the bar with Brigitte on his arm.

Hours later, after she'd fallen asleep, Clint got dressed and quietly left the apartment she shared with two others. Instead of hailing a cab, he walked back to the hotel. He got off the lift on his floor and was just sticking the key in the lock when Natasha came sneaking down the hall carrying her shoes. She sensed him watching her and stopped. They stared at each other for a long moment then each went into their room and closed the door.

In the morning, they checked out and had breakfast together before catching a cab to the airport. Nothing was ever said about that night until much later.

**Nearly a Year Later**

Phil watched through the window as Barton and Romanoff beat the crap out of each other in one of their "friendly" sparing sessions. And as always, Romanoff came out on top.

It had been nearly two years since Barton's abortive attempt to infiltrate the group now known as the Consortium. Physically, Barton was in better shape that he'd ever been. Mentally, he was more than good enough to go on missions though he was still unable to recall events leading up to and including his capture at the hands of the Consortium. Considering the amount of torture he'd endured, Phil thought it a mixed blessing. The disadvantage was obvious. He couldn't remember any of their members and so would not be able to identify them should he encounter them again, though they would no doubt recognize him. And that was one reason why he'd only been sent on missions with a partner, usually Romanoff. Phil, and Fury, trusted the Russian agent to keep Barton safe should a situation arise while they were out of touch with SHIELD.

Hours later in the briefing room, Barton looked bored as he planted his elbow on the arm of the chair, his chin resting on the knuckles. He didn't even bother to cover a yawn. "Can we make this briefing brief? I need a nap."

Phil made a half-grin. "Of course, Agent Barton."

"Appreciate it." Phil slid manila folders across the table, one for each of them. Romanoff opened hers while Barton just fingered the edges of his, one eye on Romanoff and the other on Phil. "It's been over a year, Coulson. How much longer am I gonna have a babysitter?"

"Agent Romanoff is _not_ your babysitter. She's your _partner_."

"Fine. Have it your way." Barton finally opened the file in front of him. "Let's just cut to the chase. Where're we headed this time?"

The screen behind Phil came on showing a map of Hungary. "Budapest."

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **2012 winner of NaNoWriMo contest and exclusively Beta'd by the wonderful ladygris_._

Thanks,

~Sandy

**Avengers**

**As Time Goes By**

**Chapter 4**

Standing in front of the mirror, Clint eyed his image with a critical gaze. For this assignment his cover was a math teacher for an international school in Budapest, Hungary. He cut his hair and shaved the goatee he sometimes favored depending on the mission. He adjusted his tie, slipped a pair of black Buddy Holly glasses on, buttoned his vest then grabbed his suit jacket, briefcase and a black case on the way to the door. Out in the hall, he knocked on Natasha's door while he put on the jacket tugged the cuffs back into place. "Nat? You ready?"

His partner's voice came through the door. "_I'll meet you in the lobby_."

Turning his wrist over, Clint checked the time. "Don't be long. The car service is picking us up in ten."

Her huff of frustration sounded closer yet was still muffled. "_I'll be there. Just _go_._"

"Fine." In the lobby, Clint checked his credentials rolling his eyes at the alias that had been chosen for him. Alistair Thompson. He'd spent the last few nights practicing his British accent on Natasha. She laughed out loud when he slipped from the more cultured accent into one that the Beatles made famous though he wasn't sure if she really thought it funny or if the sudden change had done it. Either way, he was about to use the lobby phone to call Natasha when a woman's voice called out to him in a French accent.

"Monsieur Thompson?"

"Yes?" Automatically dropping into his mission persona, Clint turned to address the woman. She wore a herringbone suit with a high-necked white ruffled blouse and a skirt that reached her knees. Short ruffles on the sleeves of her blouse peeked out the cuffs of her jacket. Like him, she had buttoned one button in the front. On almost anyone else, it would have looked ordinary, but on her it was sophisticated and stylish. The outfit was accessorized by black patent leather pumps with short heels, a gold watch, earrings and a pendant on a long gold chain. She too carried a leather briefcase held in her left hand. Her shoulder length brown hair had been pulled back in an elegant chignon and a pair of rectangular framed glasses perched on her nose.

She extended her right hand to shake his. "I am Camille Brissett. I believe that you and I will be working very closely together in this coming year at the international school."

"I'm looking forward to…" Clint looked closer at the woman in front of him. Leaning forward he asked, "Nat? Is that you?"

She laughed, a strange tittering sound. "No, monsieur. My name is Camille Brissett. I am from Bourg-en-Bresse, France and will be teaching Literature."

"It's wonderful to meet you Mademoiselle Brissett. My area of expertise is Mathematics. And please, call me Alistair."

"And you must call me Camille. We will be good friends, no?"

"Oui." Keeping hold of her hand and tucking it into the bend of his elbow, Clint snagged his cases from the concierge desk on the way to the car that waited to take them to the Nemzetközi Iskola Europe.

He put Natasha into the back seat, climb in beside her and they were whisked away from the hotel toward their mission.

~~O~~

One of their targets appeared in her fourth period class sitting in the back of the room and watching Natasha with the eager fascination of a teenage boy on the verge of manhood. The boy wasn't the actual target, but he would lead them to it. All she had to do was get close to the boy, and to that end, she offered tutoring for those that needed or wanted it. Some of the children needed help learning English having come to the school later in life than most and she was more than willing to use that as a means to an ends for their mission objective.

The bell rang and she dismissed the class seeming to show no particular interest in one student over another. It wouldn't be necessary. The boy would come to her eventually.

~~O~~

"Good afternoon, class. My name is Alistair Thompson and I will be your Math instructor for this school year." Clint looked out over the sea of young faces, most with a blank look in their eyes. Going to the blackboard, he wrote his name midway up the left side. In the middle, he wrote "MATH", "PHYSICS" and "GEOMETRY" with a big question mark. "These are different forms of mathematics. Mathematicians seek out patterns and formulate new conjectures. We resolve the truth or falsity of assumptions with mathematical proof. The research required to solve mathematical problems can take years or even centuries of sustained inquiry. In this class we will learn about physics and geometry. Can anyone tell me about either of these forms of mathematics?" None of the children, the youngest ten, and the oldest no more than twelve, raised their hands. "Come, come now. Don't be shy. I promise you, I don't bite."

Taking off his jacket, Clint carefully placed it over the back of his chair before walking the perimeter of the room. "Mathematics affects us every day of our lives from the moment we're born until the day we die. We calculate birthdays, the amount of food we eat, the time we are to arrive at school, how many servings in a bag of cookies and even how old our pets are.

"Physics is a form of math that involves the study of matter and its motion through space and time, along with other concepts such as energy and force. Simply put, it helps to understand how the universe behaves.

"Geometry is a branch of math concerned with shape, size, relative position of figures, and the properties of space."

He unbuttoned the cuffs and rolled the sleeves up to his elbows. "But what does that mean to _you?_ Instead of telling you, which would make this a very boring class indeed, I'll demonstrate."

The kids perked up at that, finally showing some interest. Going to the corner, Clint picked up the black case. We're going outside and have some fun."

Clint led the kids out to the far side of the playground, empty at this time of day, to the archery range. With a stern warning about safety, he took out his bow and one of the safety arrows he'd made just for this reason. He put on his gear, nocked an arrow, drew the string back and released it earning him gasps of amazement from the class when he rapidly followed it with four more. Holding the bow down at his left side, he asked, "What did I just demonstrate?"

A girl about ten raised her hand. "Physics?"

"Exactly. Shooting an arrow into a target demonstrates Sir Isaac Newton's first law of motion. An object that is at rest will stay at rest unless acted upon by an outside force and an object in motion…" Clint held up an arrow as though it were flying through the air, "…will not change velocity unless acted upon by an outside force. This is known as uniform motion.

"When shooting an arrow, one must allow for outside forces such a wind direction and speed. At extreme distances, we must also allow for the Earth's rotation." They spent the remainder of class with the kids asking questions and actually seeming to learn something. And while he'd been teaching, Clint also learned the identity of the second target.

The next day, Clint entered the classroom to find a young woman sitting at his desk. She had short lifeless dirty blond hair in an unflattering style Clint had heard called a pixie and was frowning at the papers in front of her. While she was sitting, he couldn't tell her height, but estimated that she would come up to about his shoulder, if that. He cleared his throat to announce his presence. In Hungarian, he said, "What are you doing in my classroom?"

The girl quickly vacated his chair and he saw that his assessment of her height was fairly accurate. She responded in heavily accented English. "I-I'm sorry, Mr. Thompson. My name is Annuska. I'm your teaching assistant."

"Teaching assistant? I didn't request…"

"Pardon, Mr. Thompson. The dean assigned me to your class for my internship. I'm studying to be a teacher."

She smiled and suddenly she looked, well cute was the only word he could think of though it wasn't quite right. Mentally shaking his head, Clint smiled accepting the inevitable with grace. "Then welcome to the class, Annuska."

Each day when classes were over, Annuska and Clint would talk over the events and work out the lesson plan for the next day. On a few occasions, he took her out to dinner after they'd worked late and found that she was only a semi-interesting conversationalist. She seemed to have an excessive fondness for her cats to the point that she had photos of them on her phone and in her wallet which, once she was comfortable with him, she insisted on showing him over and over again.

And each night when Clint returned to the hotel, he again felt the loneliness that only seemed to abate when he was intimate with a woman. Or maybe just having someone there kept him from feeling anything but her touch. Whatever it was, he didn't like it.

Since he'd spoken to Serene, his life had returned to normal. The normal it had been prior to his failed attempt at being something that most people took for granted: Just an everyday guy.

At eleven months almost to the day after he'd been returned to the SHIELD fold, Special Agent Clint Barton had been certified fit for duty with very minor restrictions. And those would be gone as well when his memory returned.

Though she was annoying at times, Annuska made him feel as if everything he did mattered. She hung on his every word as if he were giving her the answers to life and the universe. As the end of the mission neared, Clint began to feel emptiness in the pit of his stomach again. It was there all the time, like a ball of nothing his gut, weighing him down and making him want to be anywhere but where he was. And it didn't matter if he was at the hotel, the school or out at one of the nightclubs with Natasha. In the classroom, it eased and he felt that it had to do with the experience of teaching, which led him to wonder what he would do for a living when he got too old to be a spy and an assassin. Teach others to be spies and assassins?

In the classroom, Clint appreciated Annuska's help more than he'd ever be able to tell her because she was a fountain of information about the families who sent their children to this school. And because he asked about all the children, she had no idea which was his target. He wanted to find a way to thank her, thinking to get her small gift, but had no idea if it was appropriate or what _would_ be appropriate under the circumstances, so he decided to leave her with a few fond memories.

They slept together for the first time three weeks after she had joined his class. Two weeks after that, Clint and Natasha infiltrated the private quarters of their quarry in the penthouse located in the top three floors of a high rise complex in the suburbs of Budapest. The information they'd been sent to retrieve was safely within their grasp, but they'd underestimated two things on this mission: the number of guards in the building even while the family was away and how willing they were to get back what had been stolen. It did no good to tell them that the information had been stolen previously and the agents were only returning it to its rightful owner. After first making a copy of course. Somehow that made them even more troublesome.

Clint played out the rope as Natasha rappelled down the side of the building. When she neared the bottom, he climbed over the side, hooked up to the same rope and began making his way down. He'd only gone a couple of floors when he was found by a guard who had regained consciousness much faster than he should have.

The guard sounded the alert then to Clint's dismay, he took out a knife and cut the line. Fortunately, Clint was in a position to swing over to a balcony to his left. He grabbed the rail just as the rope gave way, spinning and twisting down to the ground like a long skinny snake. "Sonofab****!"

Looking over the side, he could see Natasha far below waiting for him. He had to get down there quickly because they had standing agreement to wait ten minutes, assume the worst and hit the road. Not that she would leave him behind unless it was absolutely necessary. He just didn't want to take the chance.

The two of them had gone over schematics of the interior and exterior of the building until they knew it all by heart including what trees were where and which ones would support their weight if they had to climb. He would go inside, make his way down as far as possible before they guards caught up to him then he'd…work on the rest of the plan on the way.

Inside the luxury apartment, he ignored the lush furnishings and headed for the den. The air duct he wanted opened into that room. Taking out a set of tools, he removed the cover from the vent, climbed inside and again employed the tools to replace the cover from inside. He wasn't able to tighten the screws, but it would do for casual scrutiny.

On his hands and knees, Clint crawled through the ducts hearing the guards still searching for him and Natasha. Keeping time in his head, he estimated that he had another seven minutes until she'd split for town taking his ride with her. Shrugging mentally, he didn't really worry much. He could always boost a car or bike. Maybe one of the Hummers parked on the other side of the building.

When he'd gone as far as he could inside the duct, he let himself out, hanging by his hands from the overhead vent over lobby area of the third floor. He let go, landing lightly on his feet and casting a glance in all directions.

A shout from a guard told him he'd been seen, though it had to have been line of sight because Natasha had knocked out their surveillance systems. And sure enough, three rent-a-cops came pounding in his direction.

Choosing an apartment on the side facing the pool, he quickly let himself in and tiptoed to the balcony. Again he could see his partner waiting at the rendezvous point and in his mind she was tapping her foot and cursing him in half a dozen languages. It was time to _go._

Swinging first his left then his right leg over the railing, he balanced on a small ledge. Far below, almost too far for diving, he could see the blue water of a pool. If he could climb down at least one floor, he could jump and not be badly injured. At times like this, the broken bones he'd suffered reminded him of the abuse he'd endured. He ignored the phantom twinges as he edged over to the left one step at a time until he came to a drainpipe. His fingerless gloves were made of material that helped him grip the pipe so he could climb down.

Clint hadn't gone far when he was spotted again. This time he cursed in Hungarian, a very colorful language for doing so. Looking down, he calculated wind velocity, directionality and angle of descent before saying, "Hell with it" and just jumped. His stomach lurched and then he was plunged into icy cold water. Extending his arms and legs, he hoped to minimize the impact and slow himself down. It worked for the most part though he did smack the bottom of the deep end hard enough that his back would ache for at least a day.

He swam to the ladder, levered himself out and came face to face with ten of the ugliest and most pissed off guards he'd seen in some time. The sight prodded something familiar in the back of his mind, but he didn't have the time to spare for it now. Pushing it away, he raised his hands in surrender, a rueful twist to his lips, speaking to the guards in Hungarian. "Nice night for a swim, huh, guys? Maybe a little chilly."

The biggest and ugliest of the group stepped forward, holstering his weapon while his cohorts kept theirs trained on him. "On your knees, *******!"

Clint took the slur the man spat at him as a challenge to see which of them could create the most colorful insult. "********!" He illustrated his meaning by grabbing his crotch and smirking.

Big Ugly charged him as he intended, he side stepped and the man ended up in the pool. Very shortly, Big Ugly burst to the surface spitting water and growling like an angry lion. "Get him!"

Two others rushed to carry out his order, their attention taken when the roar of a motorcycle reached fever pitch as Natasha skidded into a stop behind them. They stared dumbfounded at the shapely woman dressed head to foot in skin tight black leather. That is until they saw that she held a fully loaded MP5 in each hand.

"The party's been a blast, fellas, but my ride's here." Clint jogged around the group to take one of the weapons and as one, the partners began firing sending the guards running for their lives, spent cartridges flying through the air. They dove behind trash cans, and patio furniture, anything for some sort of cover and returned fire. Two of them hid behind the wall surrounding the pool pumping equipment, taking turns getting off shots though none hit their mark.

"I don't think they like you."

"I'll get over it." He held onto her waist as they sped away from the scene amid gunfire. Holding one MP5 in his lap, he fired back, both of them keeping their heads low as she weaved side to side randomly to avoid being hit. One lucky shot pinged off the exhaust pipe causing her to swerve dangerously. She righted the bike and kept going as a Hummer gave chase. It was joined by another Hummer filled with even more guards. "Not sure I'll get over _this._ _Faster, _Nat!"

"Already maxed!"

"Well, max out the max or we're gonna get slaughtered!"

Natasha hunched lower over the controls and Clint pressed himself as close as possible to keep his head down. It was at once intimate yet not. Many of their colleagues thought they were a couple as well as partners, but nothing could've been farther than the truth. Clint had once harbored a schoolboy crush on Natasha, but shared dangers and long night of keeping watch, chasing and/or hiding from bad guys, and in general having each other's backs had turned it into a very close, very strong friendship. They each owed the other their lives many times over though neither kept count. They also didn't mind being thought of as a couple and apparently Fury and Coulson didn't think it anything to worry about or they'd have been called on it after the first rumor hit the fan. As long as he and his partner knew the truth, they didn't much care what others thought or said.

"Don't enjoy it too much, Barton."

He leaned closer so he could whisper in her ear, "Or what?"

She grinned though he couldn't see it. "Remember what they say about the Black Widow."

"She mates and then she kills?" He smirked and knew she'd hear it in his voice. "Totally worth it." The name she called him was colorful _and_ descriptive. A perfect two-for-one. "I bet you say that to all the guys you go on the run with."

She swerved around and through some slow moving traffic gaining a little more ground on the twin Hummers on their tail. "And you'd be right."

When they'd cleared the traffic, Clint aimed behind him to empty the first MP5. Tossing it aside, he took the second one from his lap, clenched his knees to keep from falling off and let loose with another volley. The guards responded in kind and barely missed shooting out one of their tires. Peeking over Natasha's shoulder, Clint wished he hadn't when he saw the speedometer. At this speed, there was no way they could possibly survive if they wiped out.

Ducking at the next volley from the Hummers, he didn't bother aiming, just fired over his shoulder until that MP5 ran out as well. He tossed it away. "Going for the stash."

Natasha didn't bother with a response, just held tight on as he stood in order to get at the weapons in the compartment under his seat. He came up with two Glocks, a Sig and a Desert Eagle. Tucking the last two into the waistband of his pants, he once again returned fire.

"Clint!" His partner drew attention to the fact that they were coming up on a busy intersection with no room to go around. "Hold on! I'm takin' a shortcut."

He managed to get his right arm around Natasha's waist as she made a sharp turn and drove between two houses into the alleyway. They skidded in the dirt and he put a foot down to push them upright again. The Hummer wasn't able to follow and when they were certain they'd lost their tail, they headed back into town.

~~O~~

Watching from below, Natasha allowed herself to curse that they'd nearly been caught. And how that had happened was one of those random factors you couldn't account for no matter how much preparation and organization went into setting up an operation.

Clint had tripped over the cat. It wasn't _his_ fault that their intel hadn't mentioned the presence of the small gray and white Persian. It just happened.

The cat had screeched alerting a guard that had stopped at the door of the penthouse to check in and they were off. Not that she didn't enjoy the occasional foot chase. But she'd wanted this op to go off without a hitch so she could get back to her room and a long hot bath. As much as she enjoyed working with the kids at the school, they wore her out, but it was a good kind of tired.

Her feet hit the ground and she looked upward to see Clint climb over the side. A guard appeared and cut the rope. But Clint had already made it to a balcony. From there she lost sight of him. Turning her wrist over to check the time, she began the countdown.

A few minutes later she saw him come over the side of a third floor balcony, start down the drainpipe then just lean back and let himself fall. There was a splash followed by angry voices. Kick starting the bike, she revved the engine, dropped into gear and sped to Clint's defense.

A flurry of activity and gunfire later, they roared back into town, leaving the bike in the same place they'd borrowed it from and walked back to their hotel. They followed an employee in the back door and used the freight elevator to get to their floor.

Their mission wasn't technically complete until they set foot back on the helicarrier, but Natasha and Clint shared a grin at their success before going to their separate rooms.

Natasha went immediately to the bathroom and started the water running, pouring in a generous amount of the bath salts provided by the hotel before sending a message to SHIELD that they'd accomplished their mission.

A short time later, she sank gratefully into the hot water, sighing as her body slowly relaxed. She had no idea what Clint would be up to, and didn't really care as long as he was ready to go to the airport in the morning. If she'd bothered to think about it, she would have known, but didn't. Room service brought her a bottle of Szepsy Tokaji Aszú 6 Puttonyos. She opened it, poured a generous glassful then just relaxed and enjoyed her bath with the Russian opera _Ruslan and Lyudmila_ playing in the background as the stress of the day seeped out of her.

~~O~~

The night before he and Natasha were due to return to SHIELD, Clint went to Annuska's apartment one last time and did something he'd sworn never to do, especially with her. He slept the night through. Not because he had any affection for her, but exhaustion had won out.

In the morning, he was startled awake by pounding on the front door. Rolling off the bed to the floor, he grabbed the Glock from his pants lying on the floor. On the other side of the bedroom door he heard Annuska speaking in angry whispers with at least two others, both male. From the snatches of conversation, he determined that they were her older brothers and very upset.

Clint reached for his boxers getting them on just as the door burst open on the faces of two very angry men. They were shouting and threatening him with physical violence as he gathered up his clothes, recognizing one of the men from the previous night.

Pretending to ignore their tirades, he sat on the side of the bed to put his socks on, saying to himself, "Uh-oh."

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **2012 winner of NaNoWriMo contest and exclusively Beta'd by the wonderful ladygris_._

Thanks,

~Sandy

**Avengers**

**As Time Goes By**

**Chapter 5**

Unfortunately, Big Ugly also recognized Clint. "You! You're the one who broke into the complex the other night and pushed me into the pool. I have an ear infection because of you."

Still keeping up a front, Clint exhaled loudly in exasperation. "First off, I you _fell_ into the pool. And second, I did you _and_ the world, a _favor_. Just next time you're in that much water, use a little soap. Deodorant would be a nice touch too."

Big Ugly ignored his comment. "And because of _you_, I was relieved of my position."

"So file for unemployment."

But Big Ugly wasn't listening. "And now I find out that you are the man who has been defiling my sister these past weeks. She was _pure_ before you seduced her."

He got to his feet, pulled on his pants, zipped and buttoned the front before responding. "Hate to break it to you, _pal_, but your sister was 'defiled' long before _I_ came along. Ask her yourself."

The moment he said it, Clint knew he'd gone too far, that he'd said the wrong thing. The two men attacked as one, forcing the archer to defend himself. He didn't want to use the Glock if he didn't have to so he engaged them hand-to-hand. The men were no match for Clint's skills and soon lay on the floor moaning in pain amid broken lamps, tables and one unlucky desktop computer.

Clint grabbed his shirt, T-shirt and shoes and ran for the door. Just as he reached it Annuska grabbed his arm, a pleading look in her brown eyes. He shrugged and gave her one last kiss, purposely dropping his cover. "Gotta go!"

She either didn't notice that he no longer had the British accent or didn't care. "Will you be back, Alastair?"

"Um…no. Bye." He'd just reached the stairs when Annuska's brothers crashed out the door chasing after him. Choosing a strategic retreat rather than another engagement, Clint ran like hell. Outside, it was raining. He started to hail a cab for the ride back to the hotel then realized that he had no cash on him and the cabs didn't take credit cards. He hopped on one foot then the other taking off his wet socks, ducking when shots were fired in his direction. That's when he realized he no longer had his Glock. More than likely, that's what Big Ugly was shooting at him with.

When the brothers burst out the front door with Big Ugly in the lead, Clint took off running again, skidded around the corner and kept going, keeping his head down as much as possible to avoid being shot. The hotel was a good five miles from here, but he could make it easily, if he put his sneakers on. As luck would have it, Natasha pulled to the curb in a four door sedan a half mile from Annuska's apartment. Where she'd gotten it and how she knew where he was, he had no idea and didn't really care. He jerked the passenger door open, practically falling in and slamming the door. "Go-go-go!" he shouted when a bullet pinged off the front fender.

"Going!" Natasha crossed three lanes of traffic amid squealing tires and honking horns, made a quick left and kept going, turning left and right randomly. When she was certain they'd gotten away, she slowed down and came to a stop at a red light slanting a look at him as he pulled his T-shirt over his head. His chest and back were wet making it difficult to get it down to his waist.

"What?" He almost hit her trying to get his arm into his soaked button front shirt. Scooting the seat back to provide extra leg room, he put his sneakers on and tied the laces.

Natasha huffed and faced forward, both hands clenched on the wheel. "Nothing."

"It's not _nothing_."

"We'll talk about it later."

Clint shrugged and stared out the window reflecting on the fact that Annuska was not the sort of woman he usually went for. He knew it was shallow of him, but she didn't hold a candle to… Out of habit, he pushed thoughts of his time in New York aside and concentrated on getting the facts of the mission in order for his report. The ride to the hotel and in the lift with Natasha was loudly silent.

~~O~~

A week after returning from Budapest, Natasha went looking for Clint. Not that she needed to keep an eye on him, but he'd been acting stranger than usual. In their sparring sessions, his timing was sometimes off, and at least once he hadn't hit the bull's eye in target practice. He was eating though infrequently, and spent way too much time alone. When he did speak to her, he used single or two word sentences. Every time she asked if he was okay, the answer was always, "Yeah. Why?"

That evening, she'd heard very specific noises coming from his room as she passed on her way to go to dinner and a short time later one of the junior agents came out, smoothing her short dark hair away from her face and giggling. Clint had come to stand in the doorway watching the girl walk away with a smirk.

Another agent who had to outweigh Clint by at least thirty pounds stopped the girl, they had a short and harshly whispered argument then the man turned on Clint. Some not-so-surprising things were said by both men. She could see that they were about to start something that would get them both into trouble so she moved to intervene giving them a stern look of warning. The bigger man backed off and stomped away in the direction the girl had gone.

"You'll never learn, will you?"

"What're you talking about?" Crossing her arms, Natasha leaned her back against the wall, her eyes on his waiting for him to see what was right in front of him. "Nat…"

"Don't 'Nat' me, Hawkeye. Do you have _any_ idea how many of your messes I've cleaned up in the past year?" She was getting angry and frustrated with him regarding the reckless attitude he had been displaying in his personal life. Pushing off the wall, she walked away from him with quick angry steps. He caught up with her, his fingers digging into her arm and spinning her to face him.

Reacting by instinct, Natasha pulled her arm free, dropped into a crouch and swept her leg around to knock his feet from under him, catching him off-guard for the first time in weeks. Clint landed on his back, swung his legs up over his head, arched his back and landed on his feet again, swinging left and right. Almost without effort, she parried each of his punches as he pressed forward, a look of grim determination in his blue-gray eyes.

They came to a junction and he got in a lucky shot slamming her against the wall with his right forearm across her throat and his left hand clenched around the hilt of his knife, the sharp point pressed against her jugular. Both were breathing hard as if they'd run flat out for miles. Very slowly, Clint released the pressure on her windpipe, his eyes breaking contact in embarrassment. He sheathed the knife and removed himself from her personal space. "_Prasti._"

"Don't let it happen again." Natasha waited for him to say more, but he just returned to his room, the door sliding shut in her face as she tried to follow. The sound of the lock engaging kept her from letting herself in. If she had wanted to, she could've bypassed the lock or climbed through the ductwork in the ceiling to continue their argument, but didn't.

She didn't know if it was the incident, the girl or what she'd said, and in the long run, it made no difference. He needed time to think and as his friend, she'd give it to him.

~~O~~

Sitting on the helicarrier's conning tower, Clint had been in one position so long that his right hip had stiffened somewhat. Stretching his legs out in front of him to ease the pain, he watched the waves splash with the passing of the helicarrier on its way to the Naval Yard at Quantico for routine maintenance that couldn't be done in the air or at sea. After his run-in with Natasha, he'd come here to get away from everyone. For some reason, he felt more alive, more in tune…calmer when perched high with the wind in his face.

He'd begun to climb trees as soon as he could walk, and when he got a little older, he figured out how to reach the higher branches without needing a boost from Barney or standing on a crate. Now he saw it as a natural ability that his time in the circus had taken advantage of and honed to a sharp edge. His time with SHIELD had taken those skills to a level unknown to the general public.

Planting his feet flat on the edge of the ship's conning tower, Clint rested his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped loosely between them. The moon came up and he tracked its progress across the sky until he heard footsteps on the metal walkway below. The sound of rubber soled shoes on the rungs of the ladder preceded Natasha's appearance. Without a word, she came out to sit next to him and the partners sat just like that for a long time.

Her voice soft, troubled on his behalf. "There hasn't been one mission in nearly a year where you haven't…"

Clint supplied the rest of her sentence, "…had sex with a woman?" She nodded, but wasn't amused by his attempt at nonchalance. "What's the big deal, Nat? So I've enjoy the company of a few…"

"Nine. You've slept with _nine_ women. That I know of."

"I've been checked out by the doc and I'm clean. What're you getting at?"

"Ever since you came back from New York, you've been…different. Reckless. Not about missions, but your conduct outside of that. Even when we're not working you seem to go out of your way to provoke the other agents into fights. Someday you're going to…"

He snorted. "Get my clock cleaned? That hasn't happened, Nat, and I don't expect it to."

"No one ever does." She slanted a glance at him then looked back at the road. "I know that you cared very much for…"

With a growl, Clint interrupted her before she could say the name he didn't want to hear. "Yeah. So?"

"You can't change the past, but you _can_ make the future. And if you keep doing what you're doing, someone, probably you, will get hurt…again. Plus there are other considerations as well. Do I need to spell them out?"

"Don't."

"I'm your friend. Your _best_ friend. And I do _not_ want to see that happen."

Clint made an attempt to lighten the conversation. "You'll miss me that much?"

She gave him a sidelong glance coupled with a frown of annoyance. "I'd just hate to have to break in a new partner. That's all." There was a long pause where she let him think about things for a while before she spoke again. "Please, Clint. Be careful."

He didn't respond to her almost pleading tone. That more than anything got him to thinking about the way he'd been conducting himself since he'd let Naomi go. There. He'd finally thought her name and for the first time in months he didn't get that little shimmy of emotional pain that he'd come to associate with the memories of his time with her.

One of the things he loved about Natasha was that she always saw through him and his adolescent behavior. He had to admit she had a point. After letting him stew for a while, her voice softer and more gentle now, she said, "You can't see anything up here. Just lights."

"Well, I see better from a distance."

She took his hand in hers, one of the few people he would allow to touch him like this, and gave it a squeeze. "And what are you seeing now?"

"That I've been an idiot."

"Finally! Something we can both agree on." There was a short pause before she continued. "_Ty mne ne bezrazlichen,_ Hawkeye."

Releasing her hand, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders holding her close and dropping a kiss on her temple. "_Ty mne bezrazlichna_, Black Widow."

Natasha laid her head on his shoulder and there they stayed. When she was ready to fall asleep, they climbed back down.

**Several Months Later**

**Aboard the Helicarrier**

**Quantico, Virginia**

"Excuse me?" The words burst out of Clint's mouth before he could mitigate the tone. Not that he wanted to or cared what Coulson thought of him, but Natasha was there and the suggestion for their covers was a little over the top even for SHIELD.

"Which part didn't you understand, Agent Barton? The secret government weapons research that's being smuggled out of the country or the delivery system for it?"

Humor at Clint's expense was coming from his partner is waves. She even made a snort as if stifling a laugh. "You think this is _funny_, Agent Romanoff?"

"I do. Very much." She jabbed her right elbow into the arm of her chair and rested her head in her palm, looking at him sideways and openly chuckling.

Realizing that he was making a bigger deal out of this than he had to, Clint slouched in his chair and crossed his arms. "Fine. But what do I know about that industry? Aside from the obvious?"

Coulson could be seen trying to hold in his laughter as well and doing a better job of it than Natasha who hadn't bothered after the first few seconds. Still, Clint wanted to smack both of them on the back of the head. Coulson for giving them this assignment and Natasha for laughing. "You've nurtured your share of contacts. I'm sure you can find someone who'd be willing to help."

The bantering atmosphere around Clint disintegrated, driven away by Coulson's not-so-subtle suggestion that he communicate with someone he hadn't spoken to in almost three years. And considering how they'd parted, he doubted this person would be willing to help. But he refused to say so in front of Natasha. "Yeah. I do. I just haven't talked to her in a while."

Accepting two files, Natasha sat back in her chair and crossed her shapely legs. Clint sometimes leered at her when she did that just to get her riled, but didn't feel up to it now. She handed one to him and opened the other for herself. "Then it's long overdue."

"You've seen her recently. _You_ talk to her."

"_Your_ mission. _Your_ responsibility." Coulson used the remote to activate the viewscreen. "This is Dr. Henry Burkhalter. He is a pioneer in high temperature and energetic materials technology providing him with an in-depth knowledge of the properties, effects and storage of…"

"…high explosives. Yeah. We got that. Can we move on?"

"Dr. Burkhalter has been working with the government to create a non-radioactive bomb that would destroy the human population yet leave the structures intact and the area suitable for living within a very short time."

Clint was sitting up and taking notice as well as notes. "So he's not a nice man. Why didn't we offer him big money to work for _us?_"

"We did. He turned us down. Said he wanted to stay an independent contractor."

Natasha shook her head in disappointment. "Selling to the highest bidder, but not necessarily exclusive."

Clint's mind brought up another question. "And how does this relate to the other thing?"

The image on the screen was joined by another. "This man, Jacob Tarrant, is the owner of Tobor Studio Productions and is a lifelong friend to our objective. If all Dr. Burkhalter was doing is making more and better bombs, we would simply keep watch and approach him when his research was nearing completion and offer the winning bid for the technology. But he is now adapting this technology for use by terrorist groups as a delivery system for bioweapons. Word on the street is he intends to use it to blackmail the world one country at a time. We don't know who is backing him, but they need to be brought down as well before he perfects his work and holds the world hostage."

**The Next Evening**

**Southampton, New York**

The car pulled up and stopped behind a sleek black convertible. With the sun down, the temperatures had dropped some so that it was no longer what Natasha considered warm. She looked around her with fascination despite having been in many homes larger and more luxurious than this one in her time before and after she'd joined SHIELD.

Clint got out and walked around to the driver's side leaning on the window's edge. "Let me talk to her first and if she agrees to help us, I'll come get you."

Natasha scoffed. "I'm not the one who needs help."

"I know. But she and her company wield a lot of influence in the industry. She can get us in good with Tarrant."

She nodded and he started away. "Clint, I know this is hard for you."

"Yeah. So?"

"So if you ever want to talk about…anything…"

He made a sound of exasperation, keeping his back to her. "You've been saying that for three years. Have I _ever_ taken you up on it?"

"No."

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he faced her again. "Then what makes you think tonight will be any different?" Natasha didn't say anything and he let the tension out of his shoulders and back. "If I change my mind, I'll let you know."

Smiling, she nodded and he walked to the covered front steps, pausing just a moment before ringing the bell.

~~O~~

While he waited for Francine or Tizzie or whoever to answer the door, Clint tried not to pace. Facing away from the door, he ignored Nat in the car and just looked out over the garden where he had planned on strolling with Naomi on warm spring evenings just like this.

The door opened and a voice spoke. A familiar voice. "Can I help you?"

Taking a deep breath, Clint steeled himself to see her for the first time since before he'd nearly died, and turned. "Hello, Gina."

She just looked at him with a frown, the area above her nose crinkled in the same way Naomi's did when she was pissed off at him. Her eyes dropped down to his feet and back up to his face in much the same way she had the day they met, but not with the same purpose. This time she was making a different assessment. "Come to break my daughter's heart again?"

"I came to see _you._"

"Why the _hell_ would you think I'd speak to you after what you did?"

He leaned close and lowered his voice because the night carried sounds. "I need your help."

~~O~~

Opening the front door, Gina saw a man standing there. Something was familiar in the hunched shoulders and the tilt of his head. And when he turned around, she held in a gasp of surprise for the last person she expected or wanted to see was in front of her smiling as if he hadn't been the wrecking ball that shattered her daughter's hopes and dreams.

When he said he needed her help, she softened just a bit, but not much. She couldn't foresee any circumstances under which she could ever forgive him, but still found herself saying, "Then you better come in."

Clint aimed a thumb over his shoulder. "I brought someone with me. Do you mind if she comes in too?"

"She?" Her tone, it came out sharper than she meant it to.

"It's not what you think. She's my partner."

Hands on her hips, Gina gave him the full-on glare that she'd learned at her mother's knee and that she had taught to Naomi. "Are you and she…"

"We're _working_ partners. Nothing else."

She stared at him a little longer before relenting. "Come to the kitchen. We'll have coffee and catch up."

"You know we can't do that, Gina. Especially not with my partner here."

There was another long pause while she debated changing her mind. "Well, don't just stand there. Go get her."

Gina made her way back to the kitchen, the glass of wine she'd been drinking was still on the bar counter waiting patiently for her return. She downed the dark red liquid in one long draft then started the coffeemaker with decaf. It bubbled and gurgled as Clint's heavier footsteps were accompanied by the lighter barely there pace of a woman. And she was no ordinary woman. She was slender, her muscles very toned with a graceful, cat-like walk. Red hair reached her shoulders in waves. Coupled with her hazel eyes, it made her look mysterious and enigmatic…and dangerous. Gina sensed that this woman had seen and done things that others would find abhorrent, but had been necessary. She cast a glance around the room, no doubt looking for the fastest and easiest escape…or in which direction an enemy might attack. It made Gina nervous, and reminded her of Clint's previous visit.

~~O~~

Clint was more than a little nervous to have Gina and Natasha meet, but it couldn't be helped. He didn't know how long he'd be here and leaving her in the car would've been rude. And now it was time for the introductions. "Natasha Romanoff, this is Gina DeLuca. Gina, Natasha."

Her assessment of their surroundings done, Natasha slipped into a new persona with practiced ease. She gave Gina a big smile and extended her hand. "I'm so happy to finally meet you, Ms. DeLuca. Clint has told me so much about you."

Gina returned her handshake with a wary glance. "Funny, he never mentioned _you_ at all. But then I only knew him for a few days over three years ago and you've known him…"

"Five years give or take."

Slanting a glance at Clint, Gina sent him a silent message. "Yeah. About that." He drew Natasha into the sitting area where he'd shared Thanksgiving with Naomi, Gina and their friends. Though he'd been uncomfortable with the crowd and their constant questions, he now looked back on his time here fondly, what he could remember of it. "Have a seat, Nat. I'm just gonna help with the coffee."

He made his escape from his partner's piercing gaze into the kitchen. It wasn't much of an escape because Gina was waiting for the opportunity to question him though he knew she wouldn't do it with Natasha present. Taking the tray from Gina's hands he followed her into the sitting area and set it on the table between the sofas then took the armchair between them so he wouldn't seem to be taking sides.

The coffee was poured with Clint acting as server. He was congratulating himself that the women were chatting without bringing up anything embarrassing for him when Gina asked, "So Natasha, how did you and Clint meet?"

He took a sip and waited to hear what Natasha would say. He hadn't expected that Nat and Gina would ever meet so they hadn't worked up a cover story. Natasha took a sip from her cup, set it back in the saucer and smiled sweetly. "He was sent to kill me."

~~O~~

"I'm sorry, Isaiah." Naomi watched her ex-husband carry the last of his personal possessions from the den, rushing to hold the door for him. "Did you fill out a change of address form? You always forget things like that."

"I did. Will you be keeping the house?"

She shook her head, not wanting him to know that she'd settled for this house just like she'd settled for him. They'd married almost three years after she had moved to Chicago to work for the Chicago Institute, a mental health facility that that also conducted research, though she'd put that behind her when she left New York. "It was generous of you to sign that quit claim deed, but I'm going to sell."

He stopped on the front porch, looking over his shoulder at her. After a moment of debate, he set the box on the table and gathered her into a hug. "I understand. Take care."

"You too."

Isaiah stashed the box in the back seat of his boring mid-sized sedan, backed out and drove out of sight while she stood on the porch. He was a good man and he should have a woman who loved him the way deserved to be loved, with all her heart. They'd realized early on in their marriage that it had been a mistake, though they did try to work it out. But in the end, they both agreed that the best thing for both of them was to just let go.

Ten months after they said "I do", their divorce was final. Naomi thought about changing her name back to DeLuca, but didn't bother. It was too much of a hassle.

Going to the phone, she dialed a familiar number. "Beth? Naomi Marks…Fine, thank you. How are Barry and the kids? That's good…I'm calling to see if that condo still available…Good. I'll come to your office in the morning. I want to do another walk-through first. We can list the house at the same time…of course. 'Night."

Naomi hung up the phone with a sigh. Though she was sad to see this segment of her life end, she was also excited to be starting a new adventure, so to speak. Moving on. That's what her life had been about the past few years. Moving on, getting past heartache. Using work and, to be truthful, Isaiah to do it.

Going into the spare bedroom, she took down a box and rooted through it until she found the small photo album her mother had given her. She hadn't opened it since Clint left. Now she wanted to see his face again. Not to torture herself, but to…what? Why now? Why had she even kept the thing in the first place? It was a reminder of a painful time in her life.

Dropping the album on top of the other remnants of her past with Clint, she set the box on the bed and closed the door behind her. There was only furniture and a few unopened boxes in this room so packing wouldn't be a problem.

Her mind filled with purpose, she returned to the living room, picked up a pad and pen then went from room to room deciding what to keep, what to sell, and what to donate to charity. By the time she was done, her sour mood had lifted and she began to hum along with the radio.

**TBC**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **2012 winner of NaNoWriMo contest and exclusively Beta'd by the wonderful ladygris_._

I've finally written the last chapter of this three part story, and as a reward to all my faithful readers, here's the next chapter a day early.

Namaste,

~Sandy

**Avengers**

**As Time Goes By**

**Chapter 6**

Though it was the truth, Natasha knew what would happen when she said Clint had been sent to kill her. Both Clint and Gina choked and she calmly watched as they covered their mouths with napkins to stem the flow. Clint recovered quicker than Gina and went to her aid, squatting in front of her and patting her gently on the back with an odd expression on his face that looked very much like affection. Gina coughed a few more times assuring Clint that she was fine then he returned to his seat giving Natasha one of his looks.

"Sorry, Ms. DeLuca. That's a private joke between the two of us. We actually met when he rear-ended my car." Her look dared him to refute the made-up-on-the-spot story. "He always did have a lead foot."

"Naomi said the same thing." Natasha sensed that Gina was mentioning her daughter simply to remind the Russian of their former close relationship. "You must know more about him than almost anyone. Tell me something no one else knows."

"_Excuse me_. Sitting right _here_ listening," Clint reminded them, but his partner ignored the interruption talking another sip of coffee.

"He used to have a tattoo on his a**."

Gina looked intrigued and Natasha shared a small smile with her. "Oh? What of?"

"Again, right here listening." Clint ended their conversation by leaning forward to pick up the coffee carafe. "More coffee, Nat?'

She gave him a look of warning that he didn't heed. "No, thank you."

"Cookie?" Shaking her head made him glare at her because he knew she was having fun at his expense. "You sure? 'Cause I really think you need put something in your mouth to stop you from _talking_."

Natasha's eyes danced with unsuppressed merriment. Setting her cup and saucer on the tray, her smile turned serious. "I apologize, but as Clint has just reminded me, Ms. DeLuca, we _are_ on a schedule and need to know if you'd be willing to help us."

"With what?"

Clint turned to face Gina. "You have a basic idea of what we do."

"Very basic, but yes."

Again Natasha spoke. "We would like you to introduce us to Jacob Tarrant."

At the mention of the head of a rival studio, Gina's features hardened. "_Why_ would I want to do something like that? That _man_-and I use the term loosely…"

Clint stopped what was sure to be a long winded rant from their hostess. "Gina, please. We have no idea how the industry works and need your help to establish our cover as potential investors in his studio." Natasha watched Clint's face seeing the bantering playfulness replaced by urgency. He covered both of her hands with one of his where they lay in her lap forcing her to look at him and speaking more gently than Natasha had ever heard. "There are some very bad people out there that we have to stop. We can't say how they're involved with this Tarrant character, but I assure you, we wouldn't have come to you for help if it wasn't urgent."

~~O~~

This serious side of Clint was new to Gina though some of it had come out while they were hunting down the man who'd taken Naomi. She also remembered the look on his face when he shot Decker. It had frightened her because he was so matter of fact. Shoot the bad guy and move on. No regrets. No looking back.

But this time he and his partner had far greater concerns than one woman being threatened by a deranged man. Without him saying so, she surmised that the situation would have far reaching consequences. Reluctantly, Gina nodded. "Yes. Of course I'll help. What do you need?"

Clint's relief _and_ that of Natasha reached Gina through the tightening of his fingers on her hand.

~~O~~

"When?"

Clint looked to Natasha to respond to her question. "The sooner, the better. We won't need long to get ready, but Clint needs help with his wardrobe."

Getting to her feet, Gina motioned for the agents to follow her up the back staircase to the second floor. She led them to a door less noticeable that the others. He'd never been on the second floor of Gina's home before. They followed her inside and over to the walk-in closet. It was lined on both sides with men's clothing in at least three different sizes and styles.

"Where did you get all of this? Are they…"

"Costumes?" Gina chuckled. "I would hardly keep them at my home, dear. These belonged to my ex-husbands. I've just never gotten rid of them. Though I'm thinking it's about time."

Clint's eyes bulged out. "Husbands? Plural?"

"Yes. Three." He continued to stare at her while Natasha sorted through the clothing and accessories considering and rejecting several suits. "I bore easily."

"But, Gina, three?"

She grinned and wagged a finger at him. "To be fair, I thought each was Mr. Right."

"What happened? Besides the getting bored part?"

Going to a richly embroidered settee, Gina sat down, tucking her feet underneath. "I really only had one true love in my life and when he left…"

Clint opened his mouth but couldn't bring himself to speak aloud a name he'd only let himself think for more than two years. "Her father?"

"Yes. And it's okay to say her name. The ceiling won't come crashing down around your ears and your hair won't fall out." Out of instinct, Clint's hand went protectively to his hair making her chuckle again. "Their names were Esteban-he was from Madrid. It turned out that he already had a wife that he wasn't divorced from when he married me. Lorenzo was born in Italy, of course. He married me for my money. Not that I was averse to sharing mine with him, but he insisted on spending what I gave him on other women. And last and most certainly least, Marshall. Now he was a bit younger than I, only twelve years older than Naomi at the time."

"What happened to _him?_"

Gina rolled her eyes in embarrassment. "I caught him with someone else in our bed."

"I'm sorry. Was it…" Clint snapped his fingers unable to recall more than the bright red dress that had been totally inappropriate for the weather. The memories of that time were still spotty. He could see the woman's face, but could bring her name to mind.

"Suzanne? No. Her husband was still alive then. The housekeeper. I divorced one and fired the other."

Pushing to her feet, Gina joined Natasha in the closet. She tripped over a pair of loafers and swore in Italian. Natasha responded in the same language and for the rest of the evening, Clint was left out of the conversation as the two women made decisions about him without his approval. Not that it mattered, but he would've liked to at least be consulted on the color with some small say in the clothing style he'd be wearing on this op.

Realizing that he was superfluous at the moment, he went downstairs and helped himself to the rest of the wine in the bottle on the counter.

~~O~~

Gina insisted on them staying the night. Had even tried to put them in the same room, but Clint just gave her one of his looks and she relented. Natasha went in and softly closed the door after thanking their hostess. Gina drew him down the hall to the other bedrooms. "Gina, what we told you is true. Nat and I are partners and friends. Nothing more, and never were."

"So _sue_ me. I wanted to see if you were telling the truth. You have to admit you had it coming." Her tone said she wasn't at all repentant as she waved at three different doors. "That one looks out on the golf course. This one is where Naomi usually sleeps when she's home and that one…"

Her voice trailed off and Clint knew the room had some sort of significance, but not really sure what. He peeked into each room then waved a hand at the only one with double doors. "This one'll be fine."

She looked into his face, her eyes darting over his features. He didn't know what she'd seen there, but those brown eyes widened in sympathy. "You _really_ don't remember, do you?"

"Remember what? I've never even been on the second floor before."

Gina opened the left side of the double doors and pulled him in behind her. Standing just inside, Clint let himself take in the furnishings, the warm browns of the parquet floor and the rich burgundy colors of the bed linens. For some reason he thought they'd be blue.

Going to the balcony doors set into the floor to ceiling windows, he looked out onto the impressive garden maze. "Great view."

Turning, he walked through the sitting area to the bed then peeked into the bathroom. The snow white tiles were set here and there with curved designs that looked like waves in a medium color of blue. Matching thick terrycloth towels in various sizes hung around the room. In the shower, he found bottles of shampoo, conditioner and bath gel. Looking closer he saw the scent was cherry blossoms. Something inside his head tried to get his attention, but he couldn't grab hold of it. And just like always, when he tried too hard to remember something he'd lost, his head began to ache. He dropped his duffle bag on the antique trunk at the foot of the bed then went to the sofa and sat down rubbing his forehead. "This is fine. I'll stay here."

When he opened his eyes, Gina was standing there and the look in her eyes, as if she were trying not to cry, alarmed him. She put her hand on his shoulder and for once he didn't jump. That only happened with Natasha because she was the only one brave enough and quick enough to defend herself if he instinctively lashed out. "Oh, Clint honey, why didn't you tell me?"

"Sorry?" The headache began to abate somewhat. When Gina left he'd take a couple of the Tylenol. That thought confused him. _How do I know there's Tylenol in the medicine cabinet?_

Clint slanted a glance at Gina when she sat beside him holding his hand and he let her. "You don't remember this room, do you?"

"Uh…no. No, I don't."

"This is where you and Naomi stayed when the two of you came for Thanksgiving."

He raked his eyes over the room, but it still didn't click and he shrugged to let her know. "Doesn't ring any bells."

"Clint, _please_ tell me what happened. _Why_ did you leave and not come back?"

~~O~~

The hand holding hers clenched to the point of pain, but Gina didn't cry out. Instead, she added her free hand trapping his larger one between them. "Please let me help."

"That's just it. I _can't_ tell you."

"Do _not_ go all super-spy on me! I _need_ to understand." He released her and got to his feet so suddenly that she almost fell. "Clint!"

He was facing the fireplace, one hand on the mantel and the other rubbing the back of his neck. "When I left, I was only supposed to be gone for a few days. Recon. Get info on their operation and report back. Done it before and it always went off like clockwork. Or so they tell me."

"But not this time."

"No. I remember most of what happened before I left, but only up to a point. Some of what happened immediately before I left is sketchy." He shifted his weight, but not in a way that said he was annoyed or nervous. There was more to it than that. Gina was putting the pieces together and wasn't happy with the result. She went to his side, one hand reaching out to him and stopping short. His shoulders and back had stiffened at her approach and he was now giving off serious don't-touch-me vibes. "There are…gaps. Places in my memory that are just…gone."

"They hurt you?"

"Yeah. I almost didn't make it and that's most of what I've lost." Clint waved a hand beside his head. "I didn't even remember her…Naomi for a very long time. The emotions were there, and sometimes I would see her face in my dreams without knowing who she was thinking I was going crazy or that she was a figment of my imagination. A woman I once saw in a magazine, on the street or in the elevator that stuck in my mind." He took a deep breath, held it and let it out slowly. "And when I _did_ finally remember…it was too late. I'd been gone too long to come back."

Gina reached out again, slowly so he wouldn't shrink away, and pressed her hand to his shoulder urging him to face her, but he refused. He turned his head so she couldn't see his face. But Gina was a forceful woman. She hadn't made her a name for herself in a man's world by taking no for an answer. Moving between him and the fireplace forced him to alter his stance and when he did, she didn't say a word. Just put her arms around him and held on until he hugged her back, letting her give him comfort in the only way she could.

~~O~~

After telling Gina the sanitized version of the story, he just couldn't face her. Didn't want her to see how it still affected him all these years later. The not knowing. The pain he'd caused Naomi _and_ her. His friends from the university, Alston, Melissa, a single mother going for an accounting degree, and… There had been a professor, an older woman with whom he'd been on the road to making friends, but her name wouldn't come. He stopped that line of thinking before his headache grew worse.

She wrapped her arms around him, and in that moment, it felt so good to have someone besides Natasha care what happened to him that he accepted her offer of comfort and hugged her back. He expected her to cry for him, but she didn't. And he didn't want to let go, but they could hardly stay like this all night. Setting her away from him, he moved back, embarrassed at the show of emotion and hoping she wouldn't ask him about…

"Naomi. Did you…"

"I went to her apartment as soon as I could, but she'd moved."

The show of concern turned to anger. "And you didn't try to find her?"

Clint retrieved his bag from the trunk headed for the door. "I'll take another room, if you don't mind."

"Don't push me away, Clint. Please."

"It's late and we need to be sharp for this first meet."

He watched her hold back her natural inclination to argue and just nod. She led him back into the hall and closed the door. Without thinking about it, he opened the door to his left and closed it firmly behind him.

~~O~~

Looking at himself in the mirror, Clint had more than a few misgivings about Gina's suggestions. Since their talk the night before, every time they were in each other's presence, there was the tang of tension that refused to abate. If might've lessened the tense atmosphere if they were to talk again, but Clint didn't want to. After she'd gone to her room, he'd spent a restless night in which he'd done nothing but think.

Now they were in the spare bedroom and Gina him dressed all in black because, "You look _hot_ in black."

And he countered with, "Why do I have to look 'hot'? Can't I just wear a nice suit and be a rich guy with more money than brains?"

"This isn't your typical undercover project, job, whatever you call them. You're entering a world that is seldom seen by outsiders. The phrase 'go big or go home' was invented for the porn industry. You have to be larger than life."

Natasha added her voice to Gina's. "You look great, Clint."

He brushed at his hair feeling the gel that Gina had used. The scent and sensation touched a memory, but again it flitted out of reach. Instead of pursuing it, which would cause yet another headache, he left it alone to come back on its own. Gina had also told him to shave but leave a goatee so he did. And he was fine with everything she'd told him to do until it came to dressing. "Really, Gina? A jacket without a shirt? Who _does_ that?"

"I saw it on that actor, Jeremiah Ridley, and it looked great. You both have similar body types and coloring." Gina hooked a short pendant around his neck. Again, something jabbed a finger at him and was ignored so he could concentrate. "Trust me. This will be _perfect_." She turned to give Natasha the same intense scrutiny as she'd done him. "_Molto bella_, Natasha."

"_Grazie_, Giovanna." Natasha pirouetted to show off.

Clint had to admit that his partner did look very sexy. The dress she'd chosen hugged her curves like an Italian sports car hugged the road. Thin straps gave the appearance of being flimsy, but weren't. The hem stopped abruptly at mid-thigh and the black sparkly things on the front set off her red hair perfectly. She added a long scarf that doubled as a wrap. It hung off her shoulders with one side crossed over her chest, the trailing end hanging over the opposite shoulder. If he were to continue his perusal, Natasha would more than likely hurt him, so he stopped and went back to fiddling with his jacket. "That works."

Not knowing the way the partners worked, Gina huffed at him for what she perceived as indifference. "Clint! She looks _fantastic._"

"I'm sure you, and _she_, think so. But I could care less as long as we get the job done."

"Well, that's just ridiculous. She may be your partner, but she's still a woman." Still he kept his eyes on the mirror seeming to be very interested in anything but Natasha. "You are _hopeless!_"

Natasha sat down to put on the black strappy heels that matched the dress, grinning at his scowl. "Don't mind him, Gina. He thinks of me as a sister so I'm not offended."

"Then _I_ will be offended on your behalf." The women laughed together then Gina came to check on him. She adjusted his lapels and rolled the sleeves of his jacket up one time. "So tell me how this works. She's your partner and a sort of sister."

Clint kept his face averted from both women. "Yes."

"How do you plan on convincing Jacob Tarrant she's your girlfriend?"

His smirk was reflected in the mirror as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "We'll manage." He faced Gina and Natasha. "Tell me _again_ why I'm not wearing a shirt?"

The women laughed and he rolled his eyes.

~~O~~

After changing her clothes, Gina met Clint and Natasha in the formal living room. Before coming down, she had made a call and right on schedule, the doorbell rang. "You're expected to arrive in style, kids, so I've ordered a limo."

The trio stepped outside to a spring afternoon that had turned to the low side of chilly on its way to being cold and were greeted by a uniformed driver already holding the back door open. Clint helped Gina and Natasha in then got in himself, the women having left the middle for him.

Gina listened to Clint and Natasha confer in what she assumed was Czech as that was their cover. Turned to the side so she could observe them, she noticed that Clint's jacket gaped open enough that she could see his chest and couldn't help snickering. He shot a glare at her. "I guess it's colder than I thought it would be."

"What d'you mean?"

A snort came from Natasha when she followed Gina's line of sight. "You _really_ should have worn a shirt, Clint."

He blinked. "_You_ said _not_ to, now you're saying I should've worn one?"

Covering her mouth with her hand, Gina said, "Never mind," when he crossed his arms to hide the evidence.

"Very funny." Clint purposely dropped his eyes to Natasha's chest. "So why aren't yours, uh, what I mean is…" Gina wanted to burst out laughing at his befuddled expression.

Without batting an eye, Natasha unwound her wrap so that her barely covered chest was exposed and he could see that she was experiencing the same problem. "Women just know how to cover it up."

He made a mocking shake of his head. "Well, I guess that makes _you_ the genius then."

Natasha was gearing up for a smart remark when Gina intervened. "Stop it, both of you. You know, Clint, for a spy, you can be a bit of a child, can't you?"

"What can I say, Gina? I gotta be me."

A groan came from Natasha and Gina leaned forward to see her better. "What?"

"Do _not_ get me started!"

And once again, the women talked about him as if he wasn't there.

~~O~~

Jacob Tarrant fancied himself the Hugh Hefner of the porn industry, dressing and affecting the mannerisms of his idol, including the red and black smoking jacket. He even had much younger super-model women hanging all over him.

What most people didn't know was that he'd been married for almost thirty-five years to the same woman. They had three kids and four grandchildren under the age of ten. But there was also a secret in his life that he was willing to kill to keep. That he'd already killed to keep.

He sat back in his chair talking on the phone with an investor that was considering pulling out, tugging nervously at the sleeves of his Armani suit. Using his most persuasive tone, he'd nearly convinced him to keep his money in place when he abruptly changed his mind. Jacob slammed the phone down and swore viciously. The intercom buzzed and he hit the button harder than he needed to. "What?!"

"_Gina DeLuca is here to see you._"

"Send her away! I'm not in the mood for…" the door opened and Gina breezed into the room. Jacob sprang to his feet, a big smile of welcome on his lined face. "Gina, _darling!_ Please come in."

Gina presented her cheek for a kiss then insinuated herself into the armchair in front of the desk as Jacob perched on the edge. "Thank you for seeing me without an appointment, Jacob, but I heard Boris had yanked his funding."

He crossed his arms, the smile going away. "How could you _know_ that? It's only just happened."

Gina merely lifted one eyebrow. "You forget who you're talking to, my dear. Please let me help." She took out her phone, dialed and said a few words in a language Jacob didn't understand. A moment later, a man came in, but Jacob barely noticed him because on his arm was one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen. "Jacob Tarrant, I'd like you to meet some very good friends of mine from Czechoslovakia or whatever they're calling it now, Ivan and Angelika. I won't try to pronounce their last names. Ivan is _insanely_ rich and looking for a new venture in which to invest."

What Jacob didn't know was that on the ride to the studio, Natasha had called one of her contacts and had them "suggest" that Boris Azarov withdraw his investments from Tobor Studios. She knew it would be done within moments because a request from her contact had the strength of an order. Not to follow his directive often resulted in disastrous consequences for the recipient.

~~O~~

Clint extended his hand to Jacob, but before he could spout some platitude that neither would believe, Gina intervened again.

"I am _so_ sorry, Jacob. But Ivan and Angelika speak almost no English so I'll have to be included in your negations to translate."

A sharp inhale from Natasha was covered by Clint clearing his throat to get Gina's attention. She nodded an apology to Jacob and the three of them moved away to confer quietly. "_What_ are you doing?"

"Making sure I'm part of this. Don't worry. What could possibly go wrong?"

With a wry twist to his lips, Clint shared a look with Natasha both thinking about all the times that a routine mission had gone sideways. He mentally crossed his fingers and the op started in earnest.

And when they returned to Gina's house, Clint took her into his room and gave her a stern talking to. But she just smiled and nodded as if she didn't understand the enormity of the situation. He was so frustrated with her that he finally asked her to leave. She did, but not before she patted him on the cheek and said, "You are _so cute_ when you think you're in charge."

It took several weeks for Jacob to begin trusting Clint and Natasha in their aliases. Everything they tried had failed until Natasha showed up at the office alone one night to request "English lessons." Eventually Jacob was convinced that she and "Ivan" were potential buyers for the technology, and they were able to take down Burkhalter and put him and Tarrant in a deep, dark hole.

Gina bought Tobor Studios for a song so none of their employees were out of work. _And_ she had a great story for her memoirs…if SHIELD let her write it.

**TBC**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **2012 winner of NaNoWriMo contest and exclusively Beta'd by the wonderful ladygris_._

Namaste,

~Sandy

**Avengers**

**As Time Goes By**

**Chapter 7**

**Eight Years Later**

**The North Atlantic**

Natasha looked up from the book she was reading as the helicarrier settled onto the surface of the ocean. Setting it aside, she pulled on her boots and left the room to be joined by her partner.

"They're here," Clint said unnecessarily. They made the trip to the deck in record time. Unfortunately, so did many others. Pushing to the front of the group, they waited with just a small amount of impatience as the wind pushed at them. As one, Clint and Natasha slipped Oakleys over their eyes to mitigate the brightness of the sun.

The quinjet's hatch opened and a stretcher was wheeled out by the medics. Natasha didn't say anything as the crowd parted to let her through, Clint automatically falling into step behind as they followed. In the med bay, the man was transferred to a bed and the stretcher was returned to the quinjet.

Edging slowly forward, Natasha eyed their newest patient while a small part of her registered the slight change in Clint's breathing. He disliked the med bay and she didn't blame him after having spent nearly six months here over a decade ago though he hadn't been fond of it before then either.

She was startled when the doctors concluded their examination and left the room with Clint on their tail. As a senior agent, he could be privy to all information and frequently stuck his nose in where it didn't belong. And she appreciated that about him at the strangest of times. Like today.

Approaching the bed with more than a little curiosity about the man that had been found under the ice in north Atlantic, Natasha ignored the voices from the next room. Captain Steve Rogers still retained his youthful appearance, as if he'd only gone to sleep. She found him strangely compelling, even in repose.

Just like Coulson, Clint and many, many others, she had grown up with the stories about Steve Rogers and his alter ego, Captain America. About how he'd sacrificed himself to save the world from the destructive power of a device called the Tesseract. From what she'd heard and read, the Tesseract might one day have provided the Earth with unlimited clean energy. And now it was being brought to the surface by head of Stark Industries, Howard Stark. His original purpose had been to find and bring home Steve, but he returned with the Tesseract as well. It was now at a secret SHIELD lab being studied by the world's leading expert on power generation, Dr. Erik Selvig.

Reaching out a hand, she brushed at the dark blond hairs stuck to his forehead, snatching her hand back when Clint returned to her side. She altered her features to mild interest even knowing that Clint would see through her.

"Docs say he won't wake up for a while." In his voice she could hear the smirk that would show on his face if she looked at him, so she kept her eyes on Steve.

"And what will he think of the world now? He's been under the ice for seventy years." Clint backed up and headed for the exit with her beside him. They'd been partners for so long that they each knew what the other was thinking though Natasha would posture for pride's sake, if he called her on the strange attraction she felt for the sleeping man. Just as she had called him on questionable behavior in the past.

"He'll need someone to help him get acclimated. Know anyone who'd want the job?"

The smirk in his voice produced the urge to punch him, but she restrained herself…barely. "Makes no difference. He's got a lot of catching up to do and it won't be easy."

"He's a man out of time. He'll need someone with patience and understanding, which _you_ have in abundance, Nat."

"Flattery from Hawkeye? Will wonders never cease?"

Clint shrugged, that smirk still in place. "I've always had your back."

She didn't know why he brought up the obvious, but played along for his sake. "Yeah. So?"

"So maybe it's time for someone to have your front." He leered and wiggled his eyebrows at her.

Her eyes narrowed in feigned anger as he veered off down another corridor not giving her a chance to respond to his mocking tone. She returned to her room to continue reading, but found herself unable to focus. Instead of the words on the page, she kept seeing Steve's face in repose and found herself wondering what color his eyes were. That information was readily available from his medical file or even by looking at old photographs or even Coulson's vintage set of trading cards, but she would rather see for herself. Unable to concentrate, she eventually gave up on reading, changed into workout gear and headed for the gym.

**Ten Months Later**

**New York City**

**Loki's Attack**

Natasha ignored the sounds of battle keeping her entire focus on the unconscious man shackled to the bed. The last few seconds before she'd knocked Clint out, he seemed to have a moment of clarity. But she hadn't wanted to take the chance that he wouldn't be himself.

Clint began to stir on the bed, tugging so hard against his restraints that the muscles in his arms bulged with the effort. She knew they would hold just in case her idea hadn't worked. Opening his eyes, he mumbled a few words as if talking in his sleep and she was able to see that the blue glow that was so like that of the Tesseract had faded leaving behind his normal blue-gray. To calm him, she lowered her voice injecting every ounce of caring she had for him into her words. "Clint, you're gonna be alright."

"You know that? Is _that_ what you know? I got…I gotta go in though. I gotta flush him out." He babbled, shaking his head to clear it and that seemed to help.

"You gotta level out, that's gonna take time." He would know that she was talking about when everything was over, how it would take time to come back to himself.

Clint dropped his head to the pillow, anguish and vulnerability showing in a way that she'd never seen before. "You don't understand. Have you ever had someone take your brain and play? Pull you out and stuff something else in? You know what it's like to be unmade?"

Natasha answered truthfully. "You know that I do."

He looked around the room and down at his restraints. "Why am I back? How'd you get him out?"

With the slightest bit of humor, she told him, "Cognitive re-calibration. I hit you _really_ hard in the head."

"Thanks." Clint's tone was wry, grateful and relieved all at once.

He wanted to know how many of his fellow agents he'd killed, and she begged him not to hurt himself more by asking. That would come later, when he went before the Fury and World Security Council to make his report. But for now, they had greater concerns. An alien army was on its way with only the six of them to stand in their way. It was almost more than either of them could take in.

"…You're a spy, not a soldier. Now you want to wade into a war. Why? What did Loki do to you?"

"He didn't. I just…" she paused.

"Natasha."

The softness with which he said her name tore at her heart, but she didn't let it change her course of action. Didn't let it change what she had to do, what they had to do. "I've been compromised. I got red in my ledger. I'd like to wipe it out."

~~O~~

It seemed like a long time until Cap, Clint and Natasha were left on the street to defend a busload of civilians with only two handguns and a quiver of arrows from the Chitauri army. They got the people to relative safety, covering their retreat as best they could with Cap providing additional distractions up the street.

With the rubble of destroyed buildings and exploded vehicles all around, it looked and felt like what it was: a war zone. Natasha kept firing the handguns while Clint flung arrows through the heads of the Chitauri soldiers. It was futile at best though that had seldom stopped the partners from trying in the past and didn't now.

"Just like Budapest all over again," she shouted above the noise of battle.

Clint knew she was talking about the overwhelming odds against them, and at almost any other time that comment might have been very funny. It sort of was now, but Clint didn't dwell on it. The memory that briefly surfaced at her mention of Budapest wasn't of their escape from the heavily guarded penthouse and their subsequent firefight with the said guards chasing them. It was of him being chased by the brothers of the woman he'd spent the night with. "You and I remember Budapest _very_ differently."

And though it didn't strike him until sometime later, Clint had seen how protective of Natasha that Rogers was. Something was there that the two of them would deny. He just hoped it didn't take them a lifetime to figure it out. Though at the moment, a lifetime could be as short as between one breath and the next.

The fight raged on until Stark shoved a nuke up the Chitauri's a** and nearly bought it himself. But they'd all made it through and to celebrate, Stark had taken them for shawarma causing Clint to remember the first time he'd ever had it. Thankfully no one had noticed that he'd gotten quiet after that. More than twelve years later and the memory of the only woman he'd ever loved still haunted him at odd times.

On the helicarrier, he showered then slept for fourteen hours straight, awakening with the feeling that something wasn't quite right, but unable to figure out what it was. He showered again, dressed and headed for the Mess Hall. On the way, he knocked on a specific door, but there was no answer. Thinking the occupant must be sleeping as soundly as he had, he reached for his knife to pry up the panel so he could bypass the lock and let himself in. A surprise wake-up call was just what his friend needed to start the first day after they had thought the world would end.

But instead of the set of blinking lights that indicated all systems were functioning at normal levels, this door had a lock on it. While odd, it wasn't unheard of for the helicarrier's occupants to be a little paranoid and double lock their doors. Clint himself had been doing it for years.

Clint nosed around here and there before going to the bridge where Fury wasn't in evidence and he assumed the director was either in his private office working, speaking with the council or he had taken a few days to rest though that seemed the least likely scenario. Agent Maria Hill was in charge during the director's absence and Clint approached her the way he would Fury.

"Got a minute?"

The slender agent turned from the main workstation, her eyes automatically assessing his fitness for duty with more than a little suspicion. "Of course, Agent Barton. What can I do for you?"

Uncharacteristically, Clint was at a loss for words. "Maria, about the bunker…I would've killed you, you know."

She lifted one shoulder. "And _I_ would've killed _you_. Let's just call it even." Clint's hands were clasped behind his back mirroring her pose. "Was there something else?"

"Yeah." He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of crew quarters. "Coulson's not in his room or any of the places he usually lurks. Got any ideas?"

She kept her gaze on him, but a sadness now surrounded her that was amplified by the cessation of all conversation on the bridge. "He's in the med bay."

"Was he injured when…" Clint didn't finish that sentence. Everyone knew it had been he who'd tried to knock the helicarrier out of the sky on Loki's orders.

"Agent Coulson is in the med bay's _morgue_, Agent Barton."

Keeping his expression unreadable became almost impossible when the implications hit. "Did I…was it me who…"

"That's not important."

Growling, Clint paced three steps away and back to confront her again. "Hill! I _have_ to know if it was me…"

Her right hand twitched as if she wanted to reach out. To offer him comfort or to take it, he wasn't sure, but she just let her hand drop. "Phil Coulson was killed by Loki."

The relief of that statement was dwarfed by the pain of loss. At no time did Clint ever think Coulson would be the first to go. Nodding miserably, he left the bridge and headed for his perch on the conning tower where Natasha found him hours later. "I shoulda killed that Asgardian b****** when I had the chance."

"You had the chance and didn't take it."

He huffed at her. "When?"

"Just before Thor took him into custody."

"He'd've tried to stop me and I would've had to take _him_ out too. And Thor's not such a bad guy for a god." His scorn for "Asgardian justice" was clear.

Smiling indulgently, she nudged him with her shoulder. "Come on. Cook made _yabluchnyk._"

For the first time in days, he seemed to take an interest. "And _Kazakh chai?_"

"_Da_."

Clint and his sweet tooth had a battle of wills, and his sweet tooth won. "You know just what to say, Nat."

She raised an eyebrow. "I'm your partner. It's in my job description."

But once in the Mess Hall, he only ate a few bites then picked at the rest of his Ukrainian apple cake until she took the plate and threw it out. He finished off the tea then she sent him to rest and he was lying in his bunk staring at the ceiling when he got word that Thor and Loki were returning to their realm.

He dressed casually, slipped on a pair of dark glasses and stood by with the others as the Asgardian's turned to light and were whisked away. Natasha leaned closed and whispered, "I think Loki just needs to get _laid_."

"Not sure that'll help, but it couldn't hurt." It made him smile for the first time in days. The rest of the group went their separate ways, but deep down inside, they all knew that their services would be needed again. Though hopefully not for a long time.

~~O~~

Dr. Joan Erickson peered into the mirror propped on her desk seeing red rimmed eyes and a puffy nose though she doubted anyone else would notice. No one came to her office of their own free will. Only for their semi-annual psych evals or if they'd been ordered to by Coulson or Director Fury.

Tactical Agent Daniel Byers had been one of the first killed during the buildup to the Chitauri attack. His team had been the closest to number three engine when it exploded. She didn't find out until later that he'd been blasted into space to fall to his death with the rest of his team.

Though she knew it wasn't rational, especially considering her profession, she still blamed Barton. The archer had one of the strongest minds she'd ever encountered. He, as well as all SHIELD agents, were trained to resisted hypnosis, but she suspected that it would've been difficult at any time. There had been several attempts by hostile forces to do just that and all had been miserable failures.

How could he have _possibly_ been taken over by Loki? No, he had to have been working with the pseudo-god and when he was found out, he'd played the mind slave card. But that wouldn't last long. She'd break him down. Force him to admit his culpability in the fifty-three deaths that had been caused by his duplicity, and especially that of Daniel Byers.

The tears threatened again and it took all of her will power to keep them at bay. She had to be on her toes or Daniel would've died for nothing. The chime rang announcing her next appointment. Pasting on a bland smile, she shoved the mirror into the top drawer, slammed it shut and pushed the keyboard out of her way. The pad and pen she used for taking notes during a session close to her right hand. "Come in."

Clint Barton stepped into the room, glancing uneasily over his shoulder as the door closed behind him. He faced forward, his eyes darting around her office, a caged animal looking for escape, but when his gaze landed on her, his expression changed to boredom. Standing just inside the door, he crossed his arms. "I'm here. What next?"

"Please," Erickson gestured at a sitting area, "have a seat."

The furnishings here were unlike anything else on the helicarrier. The crew quarters were utilitarian, with a bed, a closet and a small desk upon which squatted a computer. There was one bathroom for every two rooms. The rooms were meant for sleeping, changing, working and not much else. Some lucky individuals had private rooms and a small window. As a senior agent, he was one of the few. His sidekick Romanoff too. An honor that had not been afforded to her or Daniel.

The sitting area sported a comfortable sofa and chair grouping. The windows looked out over the clouds when in the sky and the ocean when not. No part of the ship could be seen unless one pressed their face against the thick windows. During battle, bulkheads slid into place to protect the relatively flimsy material. But now, they were wide open, nothing but blue skies and white puffy clouds as far as the eye could see. And knowing what she did about Barton it would be exceptionally far.

He slowly made his way over to the sofa by a circuitous route, stopping to look out the window before sitting. Grunting as he flopped onto the end closest to Erickson, he did a good job of feigning relaxation with a touch of boredom, stopping short of actually yawning. "So how does this work?"

"You've been to therapy before, Agent Barton. What would _you_ like to talk about?"

"I'm good. How 'bout we call it a day and you sign my return to duty papers?"

Frowning with disapproval, Erickson made a few notes on her pad. "This cavalier attitude about your own well-being won't get you a return to duty any time soon, so I suggest you take this a little more seriously."

"Oh, believe me, doc. I take this _very_ seriously. And you can _drop_ the attitude. I get enough of that from everyone else. Don't need it from the shrink."

Her eyebrows drew together. How had he seen through her professional mien? "Excuse me?"

"You blame me for…"

Upset that he could read her so well, she crossed her knees making her skirt ride up. Most men would've stared at her legs by pretending they'd been checking the time or brushing a piece of non-existent lint from their pants, but not him. He boldly ogled her calves and lower thighs that she knew were toned and shapely from the hours of running and using the stairclimber. Disconcerted by his intense gaze, she tugged the hem of her skirt down then scolded herself for letting him get to her. And when their eyes met again, there was more than a hint of mischief in his eyes telling her that he'd done it on purpose to get just that reaction. She'd have to tread lightly around him.

It wasn't going at all the way she'd planned. Reaching for a partially consumed bottle of water, she took a sip. Just enough to tell Barton that she'd done it because she was thirsty and not because he'd rattled her with his audacious antics. "It's not up to me to place blame, Agent Barton. My sole purpose is to evaluate your mental fitness."

"So evaluate. Our fifty-five minutes is now down to," he turned his left wrist over then dropped the elbow onto the arm of the sofa, "forty-seven minutes."

"As you wish." Flipping the pages of her pad to the list of questions she'd planned on asking, she wrote the date at the top. "How have you been sleeping?"

He wagged his hand. "So-so. Some nights are better than others." She could see that he wanted to talk about, and so she waited. "Most nights I wake up from a nightmare and can't go back to sleep. Others, it's as if the nightmare won't end and I _can't_ wake up. In those dreams, I'm trapped inside myself, screaming to get out, but no one can hear me."

"Tell me about your first encounter with Loki."

His pretense of calm changed, became darker, disturbed rather than disturbing, and Erickson felt pride that she could puncture the veil of overconfidence he exuded. After making a few false starts, he began to speak. "I was on the catwalk above Selvig's lab when Director Fury arrived."

"Why is that?"

One side of his mouth lifted. "I see better from a distance. From above, I can see all the players in the game at once. Like looking at a chess board."

"You play chess?"

He spread his hands to the side, still with that grin. "Brains and good looks, all in one package, doc." She gave him a frown of disapproval for his flippancy and that half-grin disappeared. "I rappelled down and made my report then the Tesseract went out of control and a portal to the other realm was opened. Loki appeared on the platform and immediately began killing our people. That scepter of his emitted some kind of beam that blasted holes in anything it touched. The smell of burning flesh was everywhere.

"He tried to kill the director and both he and I were thrown by the blast. I was stunned and when I got to my feet, before I could fire my weapon, he was there."

"What happened after that?"

Clint shifted in his seat, resting his right ankle on his left knee. "I thought he was going to kill me like he had the others, blow me away, but instead, he…" his left hand touched a spot near his heart. "…touched my chest with the point of the scepter. My body felt as if it were burning, but it was ice cold at the same time as he replaced my thoughts and will with his own. My head began to pound and my heart seemed to stop just for a moment. Then everything turned blue."

"Blue?"

"Yeah. But it wasn't a _nice_ blue, like the sky or the water in the Caribbean. It was bright, shiny, electric blue like sparks, and burned just as hot, turning my blood to liquid fire. I resisted at first, just for a few seconds, but in my head, I heard his voice telling me that the pain would only get worse the harder I struggled."

"Why?"

Now Clint was examining his fingernails. "He looked into my mind and resurrected long buried ghosts and demons. Said he'd use each and every one of them to kill and destroy the people I care about using me as the weapon."

~~O~~

"How did you feel about that?"

Clint felt Erickson's question ridiculous and responded in kind. He muttered an oath under his breath, one that Natasha had taught him. "How do you _think_ I felt? _Not_ _good_. Some things are better left buried."

Erickson made a few notes then set the pad aside. "A few, perhaps. Others should be brought out into the daylight where we can see that they're not nearly the big and bad monsters our minds made them out to be."

Clint grudgingly admitted the shrink had a point, but wouldn't give her the satisfaction of saying so. "Just before he touched me with the scepter, he said…" He looked down to where he was still rubbing his chest and forced himself to stop. "You have heart."

"What do you think he meant by that?"

One shoulder lifted and dropped. "No idea."

A timer rang and she shut it off before it became annoying. "I want you to think about that between now and our next session." Her eyes flicked to his face then back to her pad, but she didn't respond to his unspoken tone. "I'll see you again in two days at this same time, if it's convenient for you."

"Yeah, whatever. As long as I can get back to work soon." Thirty seconds short of the full fifty-five minutes, Clint left Erickson's office feeling worse than he had when he'd gone in. The psychologist's hostility had come across loud and clear. It was in her voice and in her eyes though she tried to hide it behind her façade of professionalism. She was yet another who held him responsible for the attack and subsequent deaths. He could tell she didn't believe that he'd been taken over by Loki and his glowing stick of death. But in order to be cleared, he'd have to convince her.

_You have heart._

Clint could still hear Loki's voice in his head saying those three words spoken softly and with admiration by a self-professed god. Heard the voice in his dreams and sometimes during unguarded moments when he was awake. With the point of his scepter, Clint's entire life had changed. Everything that he _was_ had come unraveled. Had been unmade.

But what the hell did it _mean?_ _You have heart._ What had Loki seen in Clint a moment before he'd turned him into a remorseless killing machine? Or had he seen the darkness inside the archer that he kept hidden and had purposely set it free, making him go against his nature?

In the hall, Clint was met with Natasha's disapproval. He didn't even have to speak and somehow she knew he'd misbehaved. "What?"

"What did you do?"

He started walking forcing her to follow or be left behind. "Don't know what you're talking about."

"Really?"

Snorting, he moved to the side to let a squad pass. "You never let me have any fun."

All evidence of kidding vanished from Natasha's expression. "It's not supposed to _fun_, Clint. Loki played with your mind. Took away everything that made you who you are, all the goodness and replaced it with…"

"Monsters and magic?" She nodded. "Had to do _something._ Got this antagonistic vibe from her that wouldn't go away."

"She lost someone close to her in that first explosion." Clint was immediately sorry that he'd asked _and_ that he'd teased Erickson in the first place. "You know what that's like."

He glanced back at Erickson's door thinking of Coulson. "We all do." Huffing at himself, Clint came to a stop at the T-junction, Natasha going another few steps before realizing he wasn't beside her.

"You could request someone else. McNeil, for instance, or even Hoffman."

That idea didn't appeal to Clint any more than going to the sessions in the first place. McNeil was older, about the age Clint's father would be if he were still alive, and Hoffman, well the man could put an insomniac to sleep with his monotonous voice. "Not the best idea, but I could go with it."

Natasha stopped walking, giving him a pointed stare, her arms crossed. He glanced around and realized that she'd led him in a circle. "Apologize."

Nodding, he touched the chime and was granted entry. With a smile and a shake of her head, Natasha left Clint to deal with the aftermath of his childish prank, the door closing on his words. "Hey, doc. Got another minute?"

**TBC**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **2012 winner of NaNoWriMo contest and exclusively Beta'd by the wonderful ladygris. Again, no more teasers to the end of Part Two._  
_

Namaste,

~Sandy

**Avengers**

**As Time Goes By**

**Chapter 8**

In a suburb of Chicago, Naomi pushed both hands through her hair, still not used to the shorter length. She'd kept it long because her boyfriend had liked it that way, but now that they were no longer together, she saw no reason not to change it to a style that was easier to maintain. Not to mention that having it cut was a symbol, a way of starting over…again.

New hair and a new home were just the beginning. The next order of business was on the desk in front of her, a copy of her birth certificate with her father's name. The last time she'd seen Nicholas Ray Alden had been on her fifth birthday. He stopped by just long enough to drop off a gift and left while she had been distracted by the Barbie Dream House he'd brought her. After a faltering hug, he and her mother had talked. And that was the last time she'd seen him.

She wanted the new life she was fashioning for herself to include her father. That is if _he_ wanted to be a part of it. The only way to find out was to locate him and present herself to him as an adult. Though at the moment, she still felt like that little girl who missed her daddy, still not understanding why he'd never returned. As a child, she'd envisioned all sorts of fantastic scenarios that kept him from her from slaying dragons to being hit by a car and having amnesia to being a super-spy. As she got older, those notions faded and were replaced with the truth as she saw it. Yes, she had "daddy" issues, but she didn't let them interfere with her other relationships. Her mother had been there night and day and never once said a word against her father. Not once in all the years he'd been gone.

_Well, Father. You're gonna have to deal with me sooner or later._

Pulling the keyboard close, Naomi typed Alden, Nicholas Ray and hit Enter. Within seconds she had numerous results including MySpace and Facebook, but none were the one she was looking for. She tried different spellings as well as leaving out the middle name and still nothing.

Then a news video imbedded in the browser page caught her attention. She clicked to enlarge it, peering close at the videos of the devastation in New York. A man with brown hair, dressed in black and red and shooting a bow and arrow appeared on the screen. The video was grainy and wavered showing that it had been taken with a cellphone.

Pausing the playback, she stared with wide and barely comprehending eyes at the picture displayed there. In just a few months it would be twelve years since she'd seen that face. Lines of weariness surrounded his eyes and mouth as he fought the alien invaders with the same intensity and grim determination she'd seen when he'd killed her stalker, but without the fear. The fear had been replaced with…nothing. And though he'd aged twelve years, he was even more attractive now than he had been when she knew him.

She didn't need the banner scrolling across the bottom of the screen to tell her it was Clint though it gave his name as Clint Barton AKA Hawkeye. The redhead fighting alongside him was Natasha Romanoff AKA the Black Widow. If there had been even a shred of doubt as to his identity, it was shattered by the vision of him spinning an arrow like a baton and using it to stab one of the aliens only to be tackled to the ground by another. Natasha performed some amazing hand-to-hand, relieving one alien of its weapon and using that to take out several more.

Naomi gasped as Clint slid across the ground on one knee, his bow primed to deliver a deadly assault, pulling the arrows from his quiver and firing them almost faster than she could see. And as he'd told her, he never missed a target. They were joined by Captain America and a blond man who fell from the sky amid bolts of lightning that took out the remaining aliens, the intensity and focus reaching her even through the computer.

The video stopped there, but she'd seen more than enough to know that everything she thought she knew about the Clint she'd loved so many years ago had been just the tip of the iceberg. Unable to watch anymore, she closed the browser and opened another. Starting with _Clint Barton_ and _Hawkeye, _she avidly read everything she could find, which wasn't much. There was a gap of several years between him leaving the Coney Island Circus and when she met him at the college.

She moved on to _Natasha Romanoff, Black Widow, Thor, Steve Rogers, Captain America, Tony Stark, Iron Man and_ _Avengers_, her mind filling up with such incredible information that she soon became overwhelmed. When she couldn't take any more in, she made each page a favorite so she could come back to it later.

Going back to her original search, she stopped just five minutes later completely frustrated. No matter how she worded the search, she couldn't locate the correct Nicholas Ray Alden. She wanted to read more about the Avengers, but all the time on the computer had given her a headache.

Picking up her cell, she called her mother telling her what she'd seen and read about Clint. Gina didn't seem to be surprised, but then she'd been closer to the epicenter of the invasion and may have even been able to see some of the events from home. The part that irritated Naomi was that her mother didn't seem to be upset _or_ surprised to find out that Clint had been lying to her about nearly everything he'd told them. "We have to talk, Mother. I'll be there in a couple of hours."

"I'm not up to company, dear. Can we make it another time?"

"What's wrong? You sound…odd."

A long sigh came from the speakerphone. "Do you remember Clint's cousin, Phil?"

"Yes. I also remember they weren't really cousins. What's the point?"

Naomi heard the pop of a cork then the gurgle of liquid being poured. "Phil and I had been seeing each other off and on for a few years. He ended it when he met someone else. Phil was killed by that creepy alien, what was his name? Uh, Loki. Well, I received a letter from Phil today. It had been given to his attorney to be delivered on the event of his death."

"Oh, Mother. I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do?"

"No, dear. Talk later?"

What could Naomi say? "Of course. Get some rest." She hit the end key and sat there staring at her phone thinking.

A few days later, she watched a press conference led by the mayor of New York. He blamed the Avengers for the destruction of the city totally ignoring the fact that the citizens of Earth had just found out that there _is_ life out there and some of it was hostile. But it was what she saw in the background that stoked her curiosity. He was a part of the crowd, standing with his hands clasped behind his back. The black longcoat billowed slightly in the breeze stirring a long forgotten memory.

Hooking the Bluetooth over her ear, Naomi made a quick call. "Norman? Naomi Marks…thank you…I'm fine…sorry to bother you at home, but I need your help…Yes…I'm sending you a video. Can you enhance and isolate the faces of the crowd in the background without losing resolution? Great! There's a man left center wearing all black…Yes. And can you do one more thing for me?" While she outlined her second request, Naomi sent the link to the head of IT at the institute then waited impatiently for his return call.

She was just about to make another pot of coffee when someone knocked on her door. Checking the peephole, she saw a slender woman with dark hair and an older man. The woman had to know she was being watched because she took out a badge and held it up. FBI.

Naomi opened the door, but left the screen locked. Not that it was much of a deterrent if either of them wanted to get in, but it gave her a small amount of control in a world that had just been pushed out of its safe little orbit. She eyed them suspiciously.

"Dr. Naomi Marks?"

"Yes."

The woman's voice was well modulated and strong. Used to giving orders and having them obeyed instantly. "My name is Special Agent Maria Hill and this is Dr. Eric McNeil. May we have a few moments of your time?"

She opened the door and ushered them to the living room. She'd just moved into her new condo. The furniture was in place but boxes were stacked around the room making it look cluttered and chaotic. With an inward rueful grin, she realized that it mirrored the way her mind felt at that moment. "Coffee?"

"No, thank you. We're here at the request of the World Security Council."

That didn't make sense to her. She hadn't done anything worthy of being investigated or questioned by government agents. "What could _I_ have done to draw the attention of the FBI and this council?"

Hill rushed to assure Naomi, "This is a job offer, Dr. Marks. Not an interrogation."

Stunned, Naomi could only stare for a few heartbeats. "Are you _really_ FBI?"

"If you're in doubt, you could call the local FBI office." Hill was unfazed by Naomi's skepticism.

"Sorry. It's just…forget it. You said something about a job?"

McNeil leaned forward. "You're at the top of a very short list and your services are urgently needed."

"By whom?"

"Your country…and your world."

After the things she'd seen in the last hour, Clint and that video of the mayor, Naomi was certain she couldn't possibly handle another shock. Yet here it was. "Um…okay."

~~O~~

"What's the matter, Legolas? Never been in love before?"

Stark's offhand comment had sent Clint on a backwards spiral into his past that seemed to last forever, but in reality had only been a few seconds. Sometimes the old injuries ached, like today, though it may have been a manifestation of the remembered pain. He shrugged. A small twitch of one shoulder. "Once."

"Wanna talk about it?" Clint didn't answer and Stark waved his free hand. "It's not _my_ idea. Pepper thinks we should talk about _everything_."

"Long time ago."

Turning to face Clint, Stark leaned his left elbow on the railing. Below, the evidence of Loki's attack and the destruction of the device that Selvig had used to open the portal was slowly disappearing. Wiped away by the rebuilding of the city. "C'mon, Barton. Pepper's gonna grill me and I gotta give her _something_. How about a name?

Thinking it over, Clint couldn't see a trap or any reason not to tell him. "Naomi."

"She hot?"

Clint finished off his beer and set the bottle on the floor at this feet a reminiscent smile coming to his face. "Very."

Going back inside, Stark returned within seconds with fresh bottles for each of them. "What a coincidence. Fury's daughter's name is Naomi."

Not betraying the least bit of surprise that Stark knew something that no one else did about SHIELD's enigmatic director, Clint said, "Didn't know he had a daughter."

"Posted it on my Facebook page _and_ on Twitter. You really gotta get a page and Friend me if you wanna keep up, Legolas."

Clint sighed as it began to sprinkle. "Not into all that social networking crap." Eventually, Stark gave up trying to draw him out and went back inside leaving Clint alone with his thoughts.

~~O~~

The past few days had been a whirlwind of meetings and conferences with people who only appeared on a viewscreen, their identities hidden by shadows. In the end, Naomi found herself with the most challenging position she'd never imagined, ministering to the emotional health of government agents. If all the staff were like Hill and McNeil, she had her work cut out for her.

It would take a few days to get all of the paperwork in order so here she was back in her condo trying to decide what to take and what to leave behind. She opened boxes and put everything away as quickly as she could, then packed a third of her clothes and just a few of her personal possessions.

When the car service called to say they were on the way, she hurried into the second bedroom and opened the box that contained the sentimental remnants of her life. Taking out the photo album she hadn't opened in years, she shoved it in with the digital photo album of Serene, Donny and their daughter Elyse, her mother alone, the two of them together and a group picture from a long ago Memorial Day Weekend barbeque with friends, and her diplomas. She didn't know what her office would look like, picturing it as a typical utilitarian government office. Whatever. She was ready.

~~O~~

Now that the threat of Loki and the Chitauri was gone, the rebuilding was under way. Humans were a resilient species, highly adaptable, and they would adapt to the knowledge that they weren't alone in the universe.

And just like a good neighbor, Clint did his duty, directing clean-up crews and helping as much as he could, using the backbreaking work to keep from thinking about the loss of his friend Phil Coulson and all the other agents whose deaths for which he held himself accountable. Bits and pieces of that time came back, but many holes remained unfilled leaving even more blank spaces in his memory to go with the ones from his detainment and torture at the hands of the Consortium. The things he did remember seemed to be what Loki _wanted_ him to remember. None of it good.

When the repairs to the residential and lab areas of Stark Tower had been completed, Stark offered each member of the team a room. Because his apartment had been one of the casualties of the war, Clint agreed. Though to call the luxurious suite he'd been given a room would have been an understatement.

The bedroom alone was bigger than his old apartment. The kitchen was state-of-the art with all the bells, whistles and just about everything else he didn't know he would need to make a gourmet meal even though the only person he cooked for these days was Natasha. He hadn't made lasagna in years though.

The refrigerator was fully stocked as were the cabinets. And he wasn't at all surprised to see that Stark had included a hefty supply of his favorite coffee. If the billionaire could break into SHIELD's network, he could get that bit of info easy. All he had to do was ask Natasha. And Nat being the good friend she was would spill all if she thought it would help Clint recover.

Until the work had been completed, Clint and Natasha had stayed on the helicarrier. Rogers had gone back to Brooklyn to see what he could salvage from his apartment. Like Clint's, there hadn't been much left, but he'd stayed on to help his neighbors get back on their feet.

One thing Clint had been able to salvage from his apartment was some of the equipment he used to make his specialized arrows. He could get the everyday kind anywhere, but the rest he had to make himself or have them made. Stark had provided him with a workspace to do just that and the means to mass produce them once they had been tested. He guessed that, in a way, he was a scientist and a mathematician too though he'd never admit it, preferring actions to words.

Clint also thanked whatever God was listening that the nightmares of his time as Loki's slave were few. Maybe due to the fact that he fell into bed each night exhausted from the work he was doing. It was his assignment to oversee a repair crew. Sitting on the sidelines had never been his style. He couldn't help getting down and dirty to get the work done. And if that was what kept the bad dreams at bay, then so be it.

Only now, Fury had insisted that he take some time off before he suffered a physical collapse. The two men hadn't agreed, seldom did, but in the end, Clint knew the director of SHIELD was right. They _all_ needed rest.

With nothing to do but rebuild his arsenal of arrows, the nightmares grew steadily worse until one night he awoke tangled in the sheets with Natasha shaking him, the concern in her eyes terrible to see. Panting as if he'd just run the Boston marathon he didn't say a word. She just crawled into bed with him and held him close for the rest of the night.

It happened again and again, but other than that first night, he turned down her offers of physical comfort. She wasn't offering sex and he wouldn't have taken her up on it if she had, but just having someone close to hold onto had helped alleviate the terror. He just didn't want to rely on someone else to take that away. It made him feel weak, as if he couldn't handle a few bad dreams.

Erickson resigned her position without notice three days before and hadn't yet been replaced. It was just as well. The open hostility he'd sensed from her had been a hindrance to her ability to help him and he was glad to see her go. Though now he had no one he could talk to, that would listen objectively. Natasha and the rest of the team, they tried, but his friends could only do so much. He didn't know Thor that well. Stark and Banner had their own demons to deal with. And Rogers…he was spending his days and nights in the bombed out shell of his apartment to protect and defend his neighborhood, returning to the tower infrequently.

As the tentative day he was due to return to duty approached, Clint's anxiety level increased until he was sleeping only a few hours at a time, if at all. And when he would awaken from yet another nightmare, he would climb to the top of Stark Tower and just sit watching the stars, what few he could see through the pollution and bright lights of the city. Some nights, like tonight, they seemed to mock him, blinking and twinkling as if they hadn't a care in the world while his personal demons ravaged his mind, tearing down the walls he'd spent years erecting around his emotions leaving them raw and exposed.

It didn't help that Erickson had up and quit without notice. They had a session late in the afternoon on one day and she was gone the next. She'd simply tendered her resignation effective immediately.

Natasha had grilled him on what he could have done to provoke Erickson, but he promised her that he'd behaved since the day she made him apologize. It had also helped that Erickson had worn slacks from that day forward instead of the skirts. He wasn't crazy about her or the orders from Fury to be treated by the psychologist, but he had to admit that it helped to have someone to talk to even if she wasn't objective.

Years ago, he'd found someone that had begun the lengthy process of breaking through those barriers. Apparently it wasn't meant to be or they'd be together now. But the kind of man he was didn't belong in any sort of relationship outside of his team and that had been brought home to him on his first recon mission when it had turned into an infiltration that had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

By the time he'd met Naomi, he'd already bungled his first assassination detail. Instead of taking Natasha down, he'd turned the Black Widow from the dark side making her one of SHIELD's best agents. And as a sort of punishment, he'd been "ordered" to attend college and get a real degree. He didn't see the need. There was little he could learn from attending a university that he couldn't pick up on the streets and had made the mistake of saying so to Fury's face.

And that naturally led him to think about Coulson again. He'd been saddened to learn that while Natasha had been beating the crap out of him, Loki had been killing his friend. As always, thoughts of Coulson brought him back to Naomi. He often wondered what had happened to her all those years ago, but couldn't make himself do the background check that would appease his curiosity. It was for the best, he reasoned, because she'd never tried to find him either.

Suddenly, Clint couldn't stay here. He had to get out, get away from the city that held so many sad memories for him. Returning to his room in Stark Tower, he threw clothes in a bag, took his personal items from the bathroom and grabbed his bow case.

"_Agent Barton, sir, I see that you are packing for a trip. Would you care to leave a message for the others concerning your whereabouts?_"

Used to the AI, he didn't jump at the sound of the voice coming from all around him. "No."

Clint sensed disapproval from JARVIS. "_May I inquire why, sir?_"

"I'm not leaving to 'find myself' if that's what you're asking."

"_Of course not, sir. But Agent Romanoff will _not_ be pleased when she returns from her duties._"

A half-smile forced its way out. "She'll just have to get over it, J." Going to the kitchen, he grabbed a couple bags of coffee to take with him, shoving them into a second duffle bag. "I need some information."

"_What information do you require?_"

Going to the bedside table, Clint took out the copy of _Great Expectations_ that Coulson had given him, opened it to Pip's arrival at the home of Miss Havisham and removed the photo of he and his brother. He hadn't looked at it since he'd placed it in the book years ago. Slapping it against his hand in thought, he returned it to the book and placed both in his duffle bag along with the picture of he and Naomi at her mother's home. "The current whereabouts of Barney Barton."

"_A relative of yours, sir?_"

"My brother." The Stark Industries version of the iPhone that Clint had shoved into the side pocket of his duffle bag beeped. He pulled it out, scrolled through the data, his teeth clamping together when he read the final paragraph. Swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat, he felt the sting of tears in his eyes.

"_My condolences, Agent Barton._" Clint didn't answer immediately, leading the AI to ask, "_Are you alright, sir? Shall I call someone?_"

"I-no. I'm fine. Just didn't expect…" He swallowed again to rid himself of the catch in his throat. "Have the garage get my truck ready and put the bike in the back."

"_Of course, sir. Do have a safe trip._"

He hooked the bag over his shoulder, picked up his bow case and headed for the elevators then returned for the guitar case. Fifteen minutes later, he was weaving through the streets of New York still littered with debris. Once outside the city, he stepped on the gas and aimed for the setting sun.

~~O~~

The quinjet touched the flight deck without so much as a thump or jostle. Still, it startled Naomi enough that she jumped when the pilot opened the hatch to see Agent Hill was waiting to greet her.

"Welcome to the helicarrier, Dr. Marks. Someone will put your things in your quarters while I show you around."

"That's-that's fine. Wow! This is _amazing_. I studied the information you sent me, but the photos don't do it justice. It's so much bigger than I thought it would be."

"We get that a lot." Smiling, Hill led the way toward a door at the bottom of the conning tower. Glancing up, she thought she saw someone sitting on the observation deck, but the sun was in her eyes. Dismissing it as her imagination, she stared at everything she saw with fascination though she'd already been here once. Then she'd been just a visitor and the staff ignored her unless there had been a need to. Now that she was one of them, they all smiled and nodded a greeting, some friendly and others warily. She wasn't insulted by the latter because, after all, she was the new shrink on the block. "Here's your office. We'll be heading out in about an hour. If you need anything, please feel free to contact myself or one of the other bridge officers."

"Of course." Naomi waited until the door closed behind Hill then went to the window and looked out. The ocean was calm while they were docked at the Quantico Naval Base, but soon they'd put out to sea where they'd eventually take to the skies and she didn't want to miss that.

Opening the storage bin with her office items, she began setting up. The framed photos she would keep in her quarters. She'd had them all transferred to a digital picture frame that rotated through the photos at random intervals.

Before long, the thrum of the engines changed and the helicarrier began to move. She would've liked to have been on the bridge, but didn't want to get in the way. Instead, she went over her appointments for the day. At the top of her list she was surprised to find that Director Fury had requested a meeting with her. Meeting could mean several things. An actual meeting or a therapy session.

Either way, she had things she wanted to say to him that she didn't think the rest of the crew should hear.

Naomi busied herself until she heard the chime. She straightened her clothes and pulled the keyboard to her, pretending to be totally engrossed in something on her screen. The door opened, closed and when she looked up, Director Fury was standing in front of the desk, his one good eye looking her over as if she were on display. Well, two could play that game. She had been nervous to meet him face to face for the first time considering the legend that surrounded him, but now she knew he was just a man.

"Welcome to SHIELD, Dr. Marks."

Getting to her feet so they'd be on equal footing and he wasn't looming over her, she frowned. "I can understand if you don't want the crew to know, but there's no need for formalities in private…Father."

**TBC**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **2012 winner of NaNoWriMo contest and exclusively Beta'd by the wonderful ladygris. Again, no more teasers to the end of Part Two._  
_

Namaste,

~Sandy

**Avengers**

**As Time Goes By**

**Chapter 9**

Fury just stared at Naomi for a long moment, his one good eye not looking away. The last time she'd seen him, he had two good eyes and it made her wonder what had happened and why he couldn't get a prosthetic. But none of that mattered right now.

"I beg your pardon?"

She came around the desk keeping eye contact. "Did you think I wouldn't find out that the legendary Nick Fury is my father and that you lied to my mother and me? Only when you abandoned us you went by the name Nicholas Ray Alden."

"Doctor…Naomi, I'm sorry that I hurt you and your mother, but I did what I had to do."

"So you _had_ to lie?" Making a sound of derision, Naomi finally turned away from that intimidating gaze to look out the window. "Every moment of the time you spent with us was a lie. You told us you had no family."

He spread his hands out to the side, the movement reflected on the window. "I _don't_ have any family."

She rounded on him, rage in every line of her body as she held herself in check with difficulty. "WE were your family! Mother and me! And you _left!_ Did you ever really love her? Love me?"

Fury's hands hung at his sides as if he didn't know what to do with them. "Of course. I still do. And it's because I loved you that I had to…"

"_Director Fury to the bridge! Director Fury!_"

Naomi and her father sighed with eerily similar sounds of exasperation then he spun on his heel and hurried from the room leaving her alone again with no way of dispelling her anger.

~~O~~

As Clint passed the exit for Milton, Pennsylvania his phone vibrated against his backside. Turning onto his left hip, he dug the offending device from his back pocket. A glance at the caller ID told him it wasn't who he thought it would be. He'd expected either Stark or Natasha, but this was an unfamiliar number. Shutting it off with a jab of his thumb, he tossed it into the passenger seat where it lay until he reached South Bend, Indiana just past midnight.

Pulling into a motel that advertised vacancies, he took the room farthest from the office. He locked the door, checked that all the windows were locked as well then stripped off his clothes and stood under the hot spray of the shower until the stiff muscles of his back and shoulders loosened up.

A towel wrapped around his waist, he took the pillows from under the bedspread and lay down on top of the covers with the remote in his right hand leaving his left free in case of emergency. He flipped through the channels until he came to the cartoon channel and fell asleep watching the antics of Tom and Jerry.

He awoke to someone pounding on the door. Rolling out of bed, he automatically reached for the weapon under his pillow, but it wasn't there. Going to his duffle bag, he dug out the Berretta and held it behind his back. "Yeah?"

"_Mr. Barton? Sorry to bother you, but check out was at noon_."

Rubbing his eyes with one hand, Clint held onto the towel that he'd fallen asleep wearing as he went to the door. "What time is it?"

The man at the door shuffled his feet. "_Nearly half past one. If you're not staying another night, the housekeeper really needs to get in to clean for the next guest_."

"Sorry. I'll be down to settle my bill in a few minutes."

"_Thank you_."

The footsteps faded as Clint looked down at the gun in his hand. How had he gotten to the point that even an old man who probably never harmed anyone would seem like a threat? Releasing the hammer, he put the weapon out of sight, attended to business in the bathroom and decided not to bother shaving though he did wash his face and brush his teeth.

~~O~~

Clint dressed in faded jeans, a light blue T-shirt then sat on the side of the bed to put on sneakers instead of his usual boots. Brushing his fingers through his hair, he pronounced himself good to go. He hadn't unpacked anything but his toothbrush and toothpaste so there wasn't much to clean up. One last check and he was out the door.

He put his things in the truck, checked out then walked next door to the diner for lunch. Except that it was cleaner, it reminded him of the hole-in-the-wall place where he'd first met Coulson. And though he would miss his friend for many years to come, it wasn't nearly as painful now as when Hill had first told him. It helped that he hadn't been the one to do the deed and that there was nothing he could've done to prevent it. Coulson had confronted Loki alone. A stupid move on the senior agent's part.

That pain had been replaced by another that hit him in a different place than when he'd heard about Coulson. The research JARVIS had done for him had yielded an unexpected result. Clint had thought his brother might still be in the Army, maybe married with a couple of kids. But that wasn't the case. According to the AI, Barney died several years ago and had been buried in the plot next to their parents in Waverly, Iowa. He'd died alone. No girlfriend, no wife, no kids. Not even a pet.

Clint finished off the last of his coffee, threw some bills on the table and headed back to his truck still parked outside the motel. As he crossed the parking lot, he took out his phone to check for messages and finding only the one missed call from last night. During the playback, his footsteps faltered, coming to a stop next to the truck. Getting in, he dialed the number from the voicemail message. "My name is Clint Barton. Mr. Bagley called…yes, Barney Barton is-was my brother…you're his attorney…he _what?!_ Where are you located?" Clint buckled his seatbelt, backed out of the parking space and stopped. Taking a pad from the glove compartment, he wrote down an address in Waverly. "I'll be in your office tomorrow at nine."

Pulling into traffic, Clint made it onto the highway before his temper got the best of him and he slammed a fist against the steering wheel. He needed answers and the only way to get them was through JARVIS. Steering with one hand, he used the other to scroll his contact list. The only names on it were his team. Even Thor had a number listed. And there, under the J's was "JARVIS." He tapped the touch screen on the truck's dash and waited for the AI to respond.

"_Agent Barton, good to hear from you, sir_."

"JARVIS, I need a more thorough background check on my brother. Everything you can find no matter how insignificant."

There was a pause as if the AI didn't approve, but that didn't track. JARVIS wasn't programmed for emotion. But then there was no telling what upgrades Stark had added without bothering to tell the team. Pepper would know though Clint would never ask. "_Of course. Shall I send hard copies or will a soft copy be sufficient?_"

"Hard. I'll let you know where to send it."

"_It will be ready within the hour, sir. Will there be anything else?_"

A thought occurred to Clint. If he didn't do something to change the status quo, the team would be on him like a Velcro suit. "Yes. You are _not_ to tell the team where I've gone."

"_That seems a bit extreme._"

"Desperate times, JARVIS. I need to disappear for a while. Oh, and disable the GPS for my phone, truck, bike and any other tracking devices that Stark may have attached to me or my stuff, even the ones that Stark told you not to tell anyone about."

He knew it was his imagination, but it sounded like the AI sighed. "_As you wish, sir._"

Clint ended the call and concentrated on getting to Iowa quickly and in one piece.

~~O~~

John Bagley hung up the phone, pressed the intercom and a moment later, a young woman came into his office. "Lisa, get me the Barton file please." She seemed surprised at the request and he explained, "We've found Barney Barton's brother."

"Wow. What's it been, two years?"

"Almost three."

She picked up the empty coffee cup and carried it with her to the door. "So where's he been all this time? You'd think he would know his brother was dead."

"It's a long and very sad story, Lisa. Not one I want to go into to tonight. Just bring the file and then you can go."

"Sure. And thanks."

Bagley watched her go, a frown of irritation turning down the corners of his mouth. The firm of Haworth, Studer and Bagley really only had one full partner left. Haworth had died of a heart attack just after 9/11 and Studer had been shot by his wife when she caught him fooling around with one of his clients. To tell the truth, there was barely enough work for himself, the paralegal Lisa and the receptionist, a young mother who only worked three mornings a week.

If Bagley had one case file he'd hoped never to have to touch again, it would've been the one for the Barton family. Maybe after his meeting with the last family member, this would be the end of it. Just like most of the town, he'd disliked William Barton then later Barney Barton had stirred the same dislike but for other reasons. The last time he'd seen Clint was when he and Barney had been taken to the orphanage. He'd been six at the time and if he went by the rest of the Barton men, grandfather and great uncles included, Clint was probably an alcoholic troublemaker, divorced at least twice, who spent his evenings starting bar fights and the occasional overnight in the drunk tank.

Opening the file, he took out Barney's last will and testament as well as the private investigator reports from two years ago. He'd hired two different PI's and neither had been able to find the remaining Barton boy. And now, he just dropped into his lap. Barton had shown himself very resourceful during the alien invasion, but that didn't mean he wasn't just like the other men in his family. He may not have had a choice in the fight. Still, it couldn't hurt to test him just to appease his curiosity.

Picking up the phone, he called Barton and got his voice mail again. "Mr. Barton, sorry to bother you so late at night, but I have to file papers with the county in the morning. Could we meet for lunch at Bahama Bill's Steakhouse at one o'clock? Bremer and Sixth. I'll reserve us a table in the private dining room. Casual dress code."

~~O~~

Taking her jacket from the coat rack and hanging her purse on her shoulder, Lisa left the office and took the stairs to the first floor. Her car was parked at the end of the block and on the way she used the second cell phone she kept in the side pocket of her purse. She called the only number in the contact list, hitting the prompts as she'd been told.

"_Go ahead_."

"He's here."

There was a short pause as if the person were conferring with someone out of her hearing then "_When?_"

"Tomorrow."

Several clicks sounded in her ear then the phone went dead. Shoving the phone back in its place of concealment, she got into her car and headed home. At midnight, she checked her account and found the usual payment. A few taps and the money had been moved to a special account where it would accrue high interest until she was ready to withdraw it. If it continued at this rate, she'd be able to leave this hick town and move somewhere that was nothing like Waverly. A place where no one knew you _or_ your family. Where you could be anonymous. She'd take off and once she hit the county line, she'd be free.

~~O~~

Waverly, Iowa was much like any other town of less than ten thousand people. There was a main drag through town and lots of numbered roads designated FM something or other. Strangely enough, the main street was called Bremer Avenue. Everyone knew everyone else or knew someone who knew someone who knew you or your family. The cops hung out at Carol's Diner drinking free coffee and eating the occasional donut. Sometimes they would change it up and have a slice of Carol's homemade coconut cream pie or checkerboard cake. The mayor was also the high school principal and the city council met every other Tuesday at the Casa Del Grande on State Highway twenty-seven for breakfast.

Clint parked the pick-up in front of Bessie's Bed and Breakfast just as the sun was going down. If he remembered right, it had once been the home of an elderly couple who had no family. He took his duffle bag and bow case in with him, setting them down at the front desk.

An older lady came from the back giving him a smile that faltered slightly then steadied. Maybe she remembered his family, but when she didn't mention it, he didn't either.

"Evenin'. I'm Bessie. Welcome to Waverly."

"Thanks. I need a room. Two, three nights."

"Well, you're in luck. I just happen to have a vacancy." She pushed the old fashioned register across the desk and handed him a pen. "Sign there and I'll need a credit card."

Digging his wallet from his back pocket, Clint pulled out his personal Amex card. While she authorized it, he signed, pausing just a millisecond before adding the address of Stark Tower. It would be a long time before his old apartment was fit for human habitation, and hopefully by then, he'd have his head on straight again. Not that it had ever been on straight in the past, but there had been times when he'd obtained a sort of equilibrium that had been upset by his encounter with Loki.

"Here you go. Room three. Up the stairs. End of the hall on the right."

As he carried his things to the room, he thought that maybe this meeting with the lawyer Bagley would help put some of his past demons to rest. Or at least some of the ones from before he'd left the circus and give him perspective on how his brother had come to be the man he'd been at the end of his life.

Clint was only in his room for fifteen minutes when Bessie knocked on his door. "You work fast, Mr. Barton."

"Pardon?"

The older woman handed him a stack of papers. "This fax came for you. Had to refill the tray there was so many pages."

"Thanks." He carried the documents to the small desk and started reading. The information that JARVIS had found made Barney sound like a life's lesson on what _not_ to do. Of how it can all go wrong.

At first, Barney's file read like a textbook case of ambition. At eighteen, he'd joined the Army and had been trained for the EOD, Explosive Ordinance Disposal. When he left the military, he had been recruited by the DEA. He'd climbed up the ladder earning commendations for his profiling techniques, and negotiating skills, eventually working with a special task force that concentrated on shutting down the Mexican drug cartels.

Barney had been on way to heading up the task force when the then-current leader retired, but something had gone wrong. At the time of his death, his brother and several other agents were under investigation for an entire laundry list of misconduct. His life had ended in a shootout with a suspected serial killer. However, the rounds that ended his life hadn't come from the suspect, but from so called friendly fire. The agent was cleared of any wrongdoing and Barney's death had been declared an accident.

But one by one, the agents were killed leaving IA with no one to investigate. And though each and every death was thoroughly scrutinized, no inconsistencies were ever found. Each death took place during a firefight, but only Barney's was friendly fire. In all the other cases, the shots came from a weapon that was in the possession of the perps.

Now that he had the hard copies of the ME's autopsy report and all the evidence the IA had against Barney and the other agents, he'd go over it to see if he could find a common link aside from the fact that they were under investigation and are all dead. One of the good things about working for SHIELD is that nothing was sacred. Anything he wanted on anyone was his for the asking though most of the time he didn't bother to ask.

Too tired to think about it any longer, Clint showered and dressed for bed, but didn't leave a wakeup call. After sleeping more than twelve hours the night before, he would most likely wake at his usual time. He planned on reacquainting himself with the area and hopefully not run into anyone who might recognize him though it had been close to two decades since he'd been back.

~~O~~

Once she was certain that her guest was asleep, Bessie crept out the door of her personal quarters and around to the front where his truck was parked. From her pocket she took two electronic devices the size of a dime. The first was attached to the truck's license tag. Even up close it looked like a small flaw, hardly noticeable. The second she put on the bike's tag as well.

They were reverse proximity trackers. If RF detection equipment came within a half mile, the tracker would stop sending making it much more difficult to detect and remove them.

Of course Bessie wasn't her real name, but she'd gone by it for so long she barely remembered being anyone else. What she did remember was twelve years the interrogation of a captured SHIELD agent. He'd eventually lapsed into a coma and had been left to die in some backwater town. And except for unsubstantiated rumors over the years, everyone involved in that incident had believed him to be dead.

That's why she nearly had a heart attack when he walked into the B&B that first night and asked for a room. His voice had roughened over the years, possibly as a result of what had done in their efforts to get him to give up the information they wanted. Whatever the cause, she'd still recognized him.

Bessie should've known that he would survive. His mind was stronger than any she'd encountered in all her tenure as a member of the interrogation team. What she didn't understand was why he hadn't recognized her. He'd barely looked at her as he signed the register finally giving her his real name.

Although she'd retired from active duty with the Consortium several years ago, she still had the occasional dealing with others, providing them with a place to stay in the area when "business" brought them her way. And she was happy to do it. It was the Consortium that had indirectly helped her buy the B&B. Her task complete, she returned to her quarters and her interrupted TV show.

~~O~~

In the morning, Clint went for a run to clear his head. Not of Loki but of one of the few times in his life he'd been genuinely happy. It disturbed him because he knew that his life would never be that way again. How could it when Loki had taken everything that had made him who he was and with the touch of his scepter undid all the good he'd done in his time with SHIELD?

By the time Clint returned to the B&B he was starving. He showered, dressed and stepped out into the hall, returning long enough to get his bow case though he wasn't sure why. In the dining room, he helped himself to the continental breakfast choosing to sit near a window so he could watch the people going by and wondering if they'd knew him or his family. Chastising himself for being maudlin, he finished off his coffee, got in the truck and headed into town.

Parking the truck near the police station, he stowed his bow case behind the seat and went for a long walk around the center of town. After twenty minutes of peering into dirt covered storefronts and the faces of the people he passed, he decided that he'd had enough. While the fast pace of New York could be tiring, the slowness of Waverly made him wish he was back in that bustling metropolis even if he had to live with the memories of the attack.

Turning the truck in the direction of the woods outside of town, he turned on the radio and let the music sooth his nerves. When he arrived at the field where Barney and he had joined Carson's Circus, he found a new Wal-Mart under construction. Shaking his head, he kept driving until he came to Knutter's Field. It was a wooded area that had been donated by one of its most prominent citizens with the provision that it be turned into a park. In a small town like Waverly, there couldn't have been much money so it had never been developed. A situation that worked in his favor at the moment.

Taking his bow case, he spent the next three hours hitting various targets. By then it was nearly time to meet the lawyer. He cleaned his arrows, stored them in the case and collapsed the bow, setting it into the protective padding. He'd left his specialized arrow tips in New York, or at least the ones he hadn't used to kill the Chitauri soldiers. In the weeks since the attack, he hadn't had time to rebuild his arsenal, though all he had to do was mention it to Stark and it would get done. Still, he preferred to build them himself.

Pushing thoughts of New York, his friends and Loki from his mind, Clint returned to the B&B to change for his meeting. He hadn't shaved after his shower so he took the time to do so now. Taking one of his nicer shirts from the closet, he slipped into it, buttoned the front and adjusted the collar. He hadn't brought dress pants so the better of his jeans would have to do along with his sport jacket. Checking his look in the mirror, he realized he needed a haircut, but that would have to wait. He'd just make it on time if he pushed the speed limits just a little.

~~O~~

John Bagley was shown to his table where he would wait to order the wine until Barton arrived. Nothing too expensive considering who his guest was. To go by past experience, the Barton men preferred the hard stuff. Checking the time and seeing that he still had a few minutes-Barton would probably be late-he took a few minutes to review one of his briefs for an upcoming case. He'd barely begun when the hostess approached the table with a well-dressed young man at her side.

"Mr. Bagley? Clint Barton." He extended his hand.

As he stood, Bagley cast an appraising glance over the other man. He was dark haired like his father had been with the same blue eyes as his mother, both of whom Bagley had attended high school with. His eyes were intent and without the telltale redness that spoke of drunken nights followed by more of the same. His handshake was firm, but not too much so. He didn't smile, his expression more guarded than anything else. His clothing was neat and clean, his boots scuffed though that was to be expected.

"Please, have a seat, Mr. Barton." The server came by, a young woman with a bright smile, passing each of them a menu. "Would you care for wine? I usually get a nice Zinfandel with my rib-eye."

Barton flipped the menu open, scanned the offerings and closed it again. "I'll have the prime rib, salad with bleu cheese dressing on the side and garlic mashed potatoes. For the wine, do you have Bodegas Vizcarra 2010?'

"We do, sir. By the glass or should I bring the bottle?"

"Just a glass please."

Not only did the server seem impressed with Barton's wine choice, against his nature and past experience, Bagley was as well. "Is this your first time back in Waverly, Mr. Barton?"

"Yes. I haven't really had a reason to return until now." Barton sat back in his chair, his pose relaxed though his eyes were constantly scanning the empty room as if he expected an attack at any moment. "What's this all about?"

"About five years ago, your brother made out his will leaving everything to his sole surviving heir. That's you."

Barton seemed stunned though a bit dubious. "I don't want it."

Whatever Bagley had expected to hear, that wasn't it. "I beg your pardon?"

"Give it to charity." The expression on Barton's face hardened. "My brother left me alone when he was eighteen. I haven't heard word _one_ from him in all that time. What makes you think I want anything from him now? Just sell his car and personal belongings and give the money to some worthy cause like the SPCA."

Exhaling loudly, Bagley reached into his briefcase and extracted a sheaf of papers stapled at one corner. "There's been some misunderstanding, Mr. Barton. Your brother made some very lucrative investments over the years and had amassed quite a bit of money that he kept in several offshore accounts."

~~O~~

Stunned, Clint quickly scanned the document Bagley passed over. "Are you telling me that my brother was a…"

"…millionaire. And now that money belongs to _you._"

**TBC**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **2012 winner of NaNoWriMo contest and exclusively Beta'd by the wonderful ladygris. Again, no more teasers to the end of Part Two which is only one chapter away._  
_

Namaste,

~Sandy

**Avengers**

**As Time Goes By**

**Chapter 10**

More tired that she'd been in a very long time, Natasha left the elevator and trudged into the common area of the residential quarters inside Stark Tower. Going into the kitchen, she reached for a bottle of Stolichnaya and poured a single finger downing it in one swallow. She wiped the back of her hand across her lips not caring if she was seen. Leaving the bottle on the bar, she walked down the hall to the stairs that led to the apartments assigned to Clint, Steve and herself.

With Steve still in Brooklyn, she and Clint had the floor to themselves. She knocked on Clint's door waiting impatiently for an answer. When none came, she knocked again. "Clint? Open up! It's Nat."

"_Pardon the intrusion, Agent Romanoff, but Agent Barton is not in his room._"

Casting her eyes up to the ceiling where she imagined JARVIS to be, she scowled. "Wherever he is, tell him I'm too tired to go to dinner tonight. I'll just get a bath and go to bed."

"_Agent Barton has gone._"

Crossing her arms, she kept her eyes on the ceiling. "Gone?"

"_Yes. He's left the city._"

She spun on her heel, hair flying and returned to the common room. "Where did he go?"

"_I've been forbidden to say._"

"_What?_" Tapping her comm, Natasha said, "Guys, Barton's gone off the grid and JARVIS won't say where."

Stark's voice was the only one to respond. "_Come to the lab. I'll track him from here._"

She jogged to the elevator, taking it down three floors to Banner's lab. As she entered, Stark was engaged in an argument. Not that it was a strange phenomenon. However, who he was arguing with was.

"…this is a direct _order_, JARVIS. Tell me where Agent Barton is or I will take you apart and sell you to a third world country for use in their microwaves."

"_And as I've already said, sir, Agent Barton ordered that I not give his whereabouts to anyone, especially Agent Romanoff and yourself._" The AI seemed very put out that Stark kept questioning him.

Stark paced three steps in one direction then back. "Can you at least tell us when he left and in what direction?"

JARVIS considered that request for a moment. "_He didn't specifically order me not to, sir. Agent Barton exited the parking garage at exactly three twenty-two yesterday afternoon headed toward the west._"

"West? What's west? Don't answer that."

Natasha leaned on the edge of Banner's lab table. "JARVIS, did he leave New York?"

"_He did, madam_."

Banner spoke up for the first time. "If you won't tell us where he's gone, how're we going to find him?"

"_While I was ordered not to track him on his journey via the GPS devices, he did not forbid the use of other means._" There was a pause. "_From the direction, rate of travel, and with credit card purchases as confirmation, I have determined that Agent Barton is now in his former hometown of Waverly, Iowa._"

Thor stepped up between Natasha and Stark. "Why would he journey home?"

"_Immediately before he made the decision to leave, he requested information on Barney Barton. His brother._"

"Send it to the main monitor." The group of friends watched the life of Barney Barton flash across the screen until Stark noticed something. "Stop! Go back. _There._"

Squinting at the screen, Thor's voice rumbled through the room. "He is dead and not honorably."

Stark snorted his opinion. "Barney Barton has been a _very_ bad boy, and now his little brother is taking a sentimental journey."

Thor, as usual, was confused. "I do not understand."

Banner chuckled. "The prodigal son is going home, though I doubt he'll receive a fatted calf for his trouble."

Watching Stark's face, Natasha saw that contemplative gleam he got just before he said or did something that could get them all killed. She'd calmed down now that she knew the reason for Clint taking off. "Leave him alone. He needs some space, some time to himself."

Making an offensive sound as he headed for the door, Stark said, "Don't we all?"

"Natasha is correct, Stark." Thor's voice, always booming, chased the billionaire across the room. "We must give Barton what any one of us would want. If he wishes to be on his own to deal with his torments, then we must allow him this time."

Returning to the group, Stark met each set of eyes and Natasha knew they said the same thing. Let Clint fight these particular demons on his own.

"Oh, _I_ get it. You thought I was asking for _permission_ to go after Legolas." He shook his head. "Because I wasn't. So, I'm just gonna get into the suit and…"

Natasha took out her phone using her thumb to scroll the contact list. Finding the one she was looking for, she dialed and held it out so the others could hear.

"_Hello?_"

"Hi, Pepper. Natasha." Her smile came through in her voice as Natasha slanted a glance at Stark. The genius billionaire waved his hands trying to hold off the inevitable.

Stark's girlfriend made a long suffering sigh. "_What did Tony do this time?_"

When Natasha opened her mouth to speak, Stark tried to take the phone from her. Never a good idea and she didn't let him get away with it this time. He shrugged to let her know that he would leave Clint to work out his troubles on his own. "Nothing…yet."

"_Ah. A pre-emptive strike._"

Lifting one eyebrow, Natasha asked the question and Stark reluctantly agreed. "Thanks, Pepper." She clicked the phone off and shoved it back into her pocket. "Now that it's settled, I'm going to bed."

"Good night." Banner smiled and waved.

"Dream well, Natasha," Thor said in the softest voice she'd ever heard from the demi-god.

Back upstairs in her room, she tossed her torn and dirty clothes in the laundry before sinking into a tub of hot water scented with Samsara, groaning as her aching and abused muscles slowly relaxed.

~~O~~

"Three _million_…" Clint's throat started closing up as the ramifications bounced around inside his head and he didn't like the looks of the ones that stuck. How does a guy making barely sixty thousand a year turn that into three million? Clint's mind made a quick calculation of the debts Barney had owed at the time of his death and came up with the only scenario possible. Whatever his brother had done, it couldn't have been legal.

"Yes."

"That's…unexpected."

Taking an envelope from the briefcase, Bagley pushed it across the table. "He also left this."

Clint took the envelope, obviously a letter to him from Barney and stared at it for a long second before shoving it into his inside breast pocket. The server brought their meals and Clint thanked her in a distracted tone. She returned a short time later with the bottle of wine he'd ordered. "More wine, sir?"

"No, thank you." Though Bagley tried to hide it, he'd been surprised that Clint had turned down the second glass of wine. Apparently his family had made an impact on the attorney. Clint cut a piece of the prime rib, putting it in his mouth and chewing thoughtfully as he watched Bagley. He swallowed then asked, "You knew my father?"

Nodding, Bagley wiped his mouth and returned the napkin to his lap. "Your mother too. We all went to high school together. Of course it was brand new then. I remember this one time…"

"If you don't mind, Mr. Bagley, hearing stories about my father is _not_ high on my to-do list."

"Of course. There are some papers for you to sign to make it all official, but we can do that after we eat."

Keeping his features impassive, Clint poured dressing over his salad, but suddenly was no longer hungry. Throwing his napkin on the table, Clint got to his feet. "Excuse me."

Sitting in the cab of the truck, Clint gripped the steering wheel tightly, still stunned with the events of the morning. Taking out the phone, he called JARVIS again.

"_How can I assist this time, Agent Barton?_"

Sighing at the put out tone of the AI, Clint said, "I need you to follow a money trail."

"_Of course, sir. I assume it has something to do with the previous inquiries regarding your brother._"

"Yeah. Thanks. Oh and one more thing, and you can't tell _anyone_ about this." He hung up before JARVIS could respond, shut the phone off and tossed it in the passenger seat. Backing out of the parking space, he took off in a cloud of dust. When he reached the county line, he pulled over and got out, took off his jacket and threw it in the front seat.

He unhooked the safety cables holding the bike upright in the bed of the truck, rolled it down the ramp, started it up and drove it into the woods. He felt like shooting something, anything, but couldn't bring himself to do it. He just rode through the trees, avoiding the thicker undergrowth. Eventually, coming to a pond, he shut down and propped the bike against the trunk of a dead tree, the burned areas indicating that it had been struck by lightning in the past year or so.

Taking off his shoes and socks, he rolled up the legs of his pants and waded out into the water. Hidden as it was by the surrounding woods, the water was still cold, but it felt good on his heated skin. His hands he shoved into the pockets of his jeans and there he stood for a long time trying to sort out everything in his mind. Barney, the money, his feelings about being back, Loki, the team, Coulson. And Naomi.

As always happened, his head began to throb with the force of trying to remember. Most of their time together came to him easily, but when it neared the time of their separation, the memories wouldn't let themselves be seen. For nearly twelve years he'd dealt with the possibility that he'd be on a mission and run into someone who had been there when he'd infiltrated the Consortium base. At the time, they hadn't been that big a deal, but the potential had been there. They had gained that potential and SHIELD had been trying to bring them down ever since.

The sun tracked across the sky and headed for the west horizon before he walked back to shore, put his shoes and socks back on, got on the bike and returned to the truck. He climbed into the cab and turned on the phone seeing that he had three missed calls and three messages.

The first was from Natasha. Not that he was surprised, though he'd hoped to put off talking to her for a while. Her message was short and to the point. She cursed him out in several languages, ending with "call me." From her tone, she knew he wouldn't.

Call number two was from Bagley apologizing profusely if he'd said something to offend Clint and advising him that he could come to the office to sign the necessary papers to turn control of Barney's estate over to him. The trouble was Clint didn't _want_ the money and had no idea what to do with it.

And the third was from JARVIS advising him that the information he'd requested would be couriered to his hotel that evening. For just a moment he wondered how the AI knew where he was then he remembered that he'd used his personal credit card to pay for purchases on this trip. That meant the rest of the team would be able to track him as well. He should've known better than to try to go off the grid with Stark running the show. The only way to keep them from finding him was to pay cash for everything.

Going straight to the attorney's office, Clint signed the papers and left again within just a few minutes barely noticing the young woman sitting at a desk in the corner. She called to him, but he ignored her, needing to get away from this place.

With his stomach complaining all the way, he drove to the first fast food store he saw and picked up a bacon burger combo before returning to the B&B. He waved to Bessie then went to his room.

A couple of hours later, she was there with a thick package in a sealed envelope. Propping pillows up on the bed, he spread the papers out and began reading. He spent the next several hours following his brother's trail from the day he was accepted into the Army until the day he died. In between, he ate his burger and fries and sucked down the chocolate shake.

JARVIS had included additional information that showed a correlation between large deposits and the failure of certain ops that the DEA had run leading Clint to the obvious conclusion that Barney had been as crooked as the IA investigation alleged. It was a good thing he'd been killed prior to actually being charged or he'd have ended his career in disgrace. If this info got out now, his memory would bear the ignominy as well as Clint himself considering his actions during the Loki incident.

He'd been having occasional trouble sleeping so McNeil had prescribed Ambien, but he didn't want to take it anymore than he had to. It would become a crutch and the last thing he needed was to be hooked on sleeping pills in addition to all his other problems.

Going into the bathroom, he filled a glass from the faucet and took out one of the pills. Looking at his face in the mirror, he flashed on his reflection on the surface of the monitor in Loki's safe house. His eyes had been blue then. Not just the irises, but the whites too. And his expression had been brutal and unwavering in his allegiance to the self-proclaimed god of Asgard.

With a growl of frustration, Clint popped the pill and washed it down with the entire glass of water then returned to the bedroom where he gathered up the papers still spread over the bed and shoved them back into the envelope.

Clint changed into pajamas, lay down on top of the covers and stared up at the ceiling until he fell asleep.

In the morning, he packed and carried everything down to the lobby. As always, Bessie was behind the desk, her smile in place. "Leaving us, Mr. Barton?"

"Yes, ma'am." He signed the credit card receipt and pushed it across the desk after taking his copy.

"You find what you were lookin' for?"

Clint's forehead crinkled in confusion. "Sorry?"

Bessie gave him a knowing smile, patting him on the hand. "When you rolled in here the other day, you looked more than a little lost. Still do, but not as much."

He thought about what she was saying. "Maybe I'm on the right track then."

"Well, good for you! Where you headed? Back home?"

"No, ma'am. Taking some time off. Do a little traveling. Canada, maybe."

She squeezed his hand again. "Have a safe trip then."

Clint picked up his cases and duffle bag. He packed them behind the seat, got in and took off. As he neared the cemetery, he eased off the gas, but didn't stop. Instead, he floored it and didn't slow down until he hit the Wisconsin state line where he filled up the tank, got something to eat and headed out again. Headed north, he changed his mind and turned to the west. Using the phone Stark had given to each of the Avengers, he located the address of Coulson's ex-girlfriend now living in Portland. He had something to give her and it had to be in person.

Two days later, Clint rolled into Portland exhausted from driving the last leg of the trip without stopping for more than gas and food. He checked into the first motel he came to then walked to the thrift store across the street where he bought jeans, a T-shirt and a flannel shirt. In his room, he washed a pair each of socks and boxers then hung them over the heater to dry.

Awakening refreshed, he grabbed a quick breakfast then drove to the Portland Symphony rehearsal hall. The doorman let him in when he flashed his FBI cover badge. The orchestra was in the middle of Pachelbel's Canon in D so he dropped into a seat at the back of the room and waited. When they finished, the maestro called a break.

Clint hurried forward to catch Abigail Brasher before she disappeared into the ladies room. He introduced himself as a friend of Coulson's and presented her with the letter addressed to her. She impulsively hugged him briefly then hurried away, but not before he'd seen the tears glistening in her eyes. Kicking himself for making her cry, he crossed the lobby, hit the exit, jumped in his truck sitting at the curb and peeled out of the parking lot.

A couple of days later, Clint crossed into Sault Sainte Marie, Ontario and was stopped by the border patrol. He didn't think anything of it because the stops were random and he'd apparently drawn the short straw this time.

"Welcome to Ontario…"

"Agent Barton, FBI." He passed over his ID and the guard carried it to his computer where he did a quick check.

When they'd finished searching the truck, his bike and all his personal belongings, and the dogs had sniffed everything within an inch of its life, the guy handed his ID back with a smile. "Sorry about that, Agent Barton."

Clint returned the smile with one that he managed to make appear genuine. "I understand, officer. Can't be too careful."

"No, sir. Have a great visit."

Just before he closed the driver's door, Clint said, "I intend to."

Five hours later, he rolled into North Bay where he stayed the night. When he'd left Waverly, aside from coming to Canada, he had no real destination in mind, so from North Bay he made the drive to Four Mile Lake where he camped out overnight in his truck. From there he journeyed to Otter Lake, again camping out for two nights this time.

He rolled into Redbridge then on down to Camp Champlain and over to Mattawa. Leaving Mattawa, he had the urge to see Niagara Falls. From there it would be only a short, for him, drive back to New York City. And if he didn't feel like going back yet, he could go somewhere else.

Clint finally made it to Niagara Falls, but didn't go straight to the falls. First he checked into a hotel that provided a view of the water without the noise. His plans were to stay a couple of days, visit the falls, go hiking in the Niagara Gorge, maybe even take the Cave of the Winds tour. He'd been to Canada many times, but never as a tourist. It felt kinda good not to have an agenda or be running an infiltration op.

That night, he fell asleep without needing the Ambien, but unlike the one night he'd used it, his dreams were scattered, jumping from one scene to another without rhyme or reason. One moment they were frightening, the next dull then transitioning to terrifying. There wasn't a lot that Clint was afraid of, but having Loki inside his mind again was one of them. More than once he wished that he'd managed to take him out before Thor or the others could stop him because every day that Loki lived was another day that someone else could be taken over by him. He didn't know if having succumbed once he'd be even more susceptible the next time or if it had built up immunity. Either way, he didn't want to chance it.

In the morning, he went down to breakfast then signed up for the gorge hike hoping that by the end of the day he'd be so tired he would just fall into a dreamless sleep.

No such luck.

His second night in Niagara Falls was the worst since he'd left New York. In his nightmare, he killed each of his friends in the way they feared most then their ghosts came back to point fingers, to accuse him of following Loki willingly. Even Natasha, who knew differently. He told them over and over that they were wrong, but they kept coming, joined by all the other agents whose deaths had been at his hands or because of something Loki had made him do.

Clint awoke suddenly to someone pounding on his door. He rolled out of bed reaching for the gun under his pillow.

"Security! Open up!"

His heart was beating so fast, his breaths rasping in and out like he'd been running a race. His subconscious was still in the nightmare, but his conscious mind told him that he must have been screaming in his sleep. Why else would security be knocking on his door at two in the morning? Scooping up the remote, he hid the weapon as he staggered to the door and opened it to find two uniformed security officers and a man he assumed was the manager. "Yeah?"

"Excuse me, Agent Barton, but your neighbors heard noise coming from your room. I'm afraid we'll have to ask you to step out in the hall while it's searched."

"Had the TV up too loud." Even though he was in his boxers and T-shirt, he stepped out into the hall after first flipping on the lights. "Have at it."

The manager nodded and the security guards stepped inside. They did a quick search of the bathroom, closets and the bedroom giving the mangled covers a cursory glance, finding nothing amiss. "I do apologize for the intrusion, but you understand that we have to check these things out when someone makes a complaint."

"Yes. I'll keep it down from now on."

When they were gone, Clint sat on the foot of the bed, his elbows resting on his knees, one hand rubbing through his hair finding it wet with perspiration. He'd thrashed around so much that the covers were half on the floor. He was still tired, but there was no way he'd chance descending back into that nightmare and get himself thrown out of the hotel.

Stripping off his clothes, he took a quick shower then lay down with just the towel around him. Taking out the documents JARVIS had sent him, he examined specific pages again, and the longer he looked at them, the more ideas went through his mind. And his mind was telling him that The Consortium had to be behind not only his brother's downfall, but that of the other dead agents too.

The Consortium had paid them to blow specific ops and when they were of no more use to them, they'd had the five men and one woman killed. All of the deaths had occurred during firefights so they hadn't drawn suspicion. And just because those six were the only ones being investigated didn't mean they were the only Consortium moles in the DEA. Hell, they probably had them all over the place. FBI, CIA, ATF, maybe even in SHIELD.

Clint still couldn't remember his time as their captive. He told the doctors and Natasha that it didn't bother him, but it did. A lot. Especially those events leading up to his capture. His and Natasha's visit to Gina had brought home to him that there was much about those days that had been very special for Naomi and he though he couldn't remember it.

He'd been thinking of her more and more lately, wanting to know what she'd been doing since they'd last seen each other and if she was happy. _He_ was happy…sort of. At least as happy as he ever expected to be. Well, less so now than before Loki.

While he'd been sitting and thinking, the world had roused itself from its overnight slumber so he changed into workout clothes and went for a run. After a while, his mind settled down enough for him to be able to think more clearly. He came to a park where kids were playing. A Frisbee sailed over his head. He used the bench to jump up and grab it, coming down on both feet and going into a somersault. The kids cheered and he spent the next hour or so showing them a few circus tricks that were easy for them to learn. And that gave him an idea.

Back in his room, Clint showered and went down to breakfast before joining the tour to the falls. He'd been here with Coulson to meet a contact they had hoped would give them the information they'd need to bring down a rebel group running guns in the Congo. That hadn't panned out and though both men had wanted to take in the sights, they'd been needed back at SHIELD.

Now Clint took the time to just watch the water flowing, imagining it washing all his cares and torments away and drowning them at the base of the falls never to be able to return and haunt his dreams or his waking world ever again.

Standing at the railing, elbows resting on the top and hands clasped together, he let his mind just drift. That is until someone jostled him from behind. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw nothing but the same people he'd started the tour with and none of them seemed to be paying him any attention. He went back to his contemplation of the raging water, felt the spray on his face and took a deep breath of the tangy air. That breath became trapped in his lungs when someone bumped into him and he heard a voice say something that sounded like, "Merry Christmas, a*****e!"

Though Clint knew he couldn't have heard what he thought he heard, the words caused a strange sensation to flow through him. Old injuries began to ache as if fresh and the tips of his fingers burned. Brief flashes of being tied to a chair while he was beaten and tortured rocketed through his brain leaving a trail of fragmented memories that blinked and flickered all out of order as if someone had gone in and rearranged them to confuse him.

He saw himself, bleeding and bruised, lying on a thin mattress in a darkened cell.

Being given unpalatable food but eating it anyway to keep his strength up though it ultimately did no good.

Kneeling in front of a dirty commode, puking his guts out again and again.

Drinking water that burned his mouth and throat.

Being punched and kicked and brutalized, yet never giving them what they wanted. Never straying from his original story.

Intense pain roared inside his head making him dizzy. Hands touched him. Voices spoke to him. But he didn't respond. _Couldn't_ respond. His heart rate and the pain climbed to an intolerable level as his body went into self-preservation mode and shut down. Clint didn't even feel it when he lost consciousness and hit the deck.

**TBC**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: **2012 winner of NaNoWriMo contest and exclusively Beta'd by the wonderful ladygris._  
_

Namaste,

~Sandy

**Avengers**

**As Time Goes By**

**Chapter 11**

Parking in front of the B&B, Lisa sat for a moment, her hands gripping the steering wheel. She'd been ordered to make a report in person. Something she'd never had to do before. Her job this time had been to get close to Clint Barton, to find out what he remembered from twelve years ago. She'd almost balked at the idea because he was more than ten years older than she, but when seeing his photo changed her mind. The man was hot for an older guy.

Now that it was over, she'd told them everything she knew. He'd come to settle his brother's sizable estate and that was all. He hadn't done anything else while in town but walk around and go for a morning run. Her contact had mentioned that he'd received a fax and a package at the B&B, but she had no idea what either of them contained.

Sighing, she got out of her car and went inside. The older lady behind the desk watched her approach with a smile on her face. Lisa tried to return it and must've managed well enough because she was given the code phrase. "You look exhausted, dear."

"I've been driving all night. Could I get some water?"

Bessie motioned for her to come behind the counter and ushered her into the office. "You were supposed to seduce him. Find out what he knows about our employers."

"The opportunity never came up. Barton came to the office, but didn't stay long, and he never came into the bar. That's not _my_ fault. I can hardly seduce a man who won't sit still long enough for me to introduce myself."

The other woman nodded in agreement. "The trackers are on the truck and the bike. Others will take over."

Picking up her purse, Lisa got to her feet and without another word, got in her car and returned to the law office, thankful that she hadn't been reprimanded more severely. She'd heard stories, but didn't dare ask if they were true.

~~O~~

Going to the back of her personal rooms, Bessie opened a concealed panel that contained a combined DNA/retinal scanner. Inside the secret room it unlocked, the tracking equipment was already activated meaning that Barton wasn't near a detection device. The red dot on the screen that was his truck was making its way through Ontario headed toward Toronto. From there, it was just a short drive back to New York. "What the hell's he doing in Oregon?"

Over the next several days, she kept an eye on Barton's travels as he entered Canada and began his trek eastward. It was just her good luck that he avoided the big cities or she'd have lost him. The next day, he took a sharp turn southward and kept going until he reached the Texas/Mexico border then the tracking abruptly stopped.

With one phone call, she had a double squad of Consortium agents headed for Laredo, Texas to find out what happened. That same day, the amount of two hundred fifty thousand was deposited into her offshore account. The next day, however, the funds were withdrawn.

She made another call and when it concluded, the phone smashed against the wall. Somehow the trackers from Barton's vehicles had been found and affixed to another. The agents that had gone to Laredo on her say so were all dead, killed by a very powerful and dangerous drug cartel operating out of Anáhuac, Mexico.

Though it was a possibility that the leader of her former employer was even more brutal in the way he dealt with errors on this level, she didn't fear for her life as most would. She was more valuable to them alive than dead.

Bessie locked the secret room and made her way to the laundry, filled a basket with the clean linens and went upstairs to clean the two recently vacated rooms with the help of a young woman from town. While the two women worked, Bessie made every effort to devise a way to blame Lisa for the failure and have the girl eliminated. If not, Bessie would do it herself just to let off steam.

~~O~~

Clint awoke lying on a soft surface and a light being flashed in his eyes. He turned his head and pushed the source away encountering the soft flesh of a woman's arm. His next sensation was of a gentle rocking motion such as when riding in a car or… His eyes flew open and he tried to sit up. Hands on his shoulders pressed him back down and the wave of dizziness that assailed him made him compliant.

A soothing voice spoke to him. "Easy. Easy. You're okay."

"Wh-where am I?" His head hurt so bad he could barely talk. Hands touched him gently on the forehead probing around a sore area. Lifting his right hand, he realized an IV had been inserted in the back. "What happened?"

"You took a bit of a fall, sir. Hit your head. No harm done though. Won't even need stitches. But the doctor wants to do some tests to find out why you fainted."

Forcing his eyes open, Clint saw a young woman with short blond hair in a paramedic's uniform sitting beside him, a bland smile on her face as she checked his IV then took his blood pressure. Next to him, the heart monitor continued to beep a steady rhythm. He pulled the monitor leads free then reached for the IV.

"Whoa! Where do you think you're going?" Over her shoulder, she said to the driver, "Step on it, Charlie. We got a fighter."

The dizziness swamped him again accompanied by shakiness in his limbs. He let his head drop back to the pillow allowing the woman reattach the leads. "I'll be fine. Just let me go back to my hotel."

"Agent Barton, people in as good a physical shape as you are don't faint for no reason. Let the doctor check you out."

Clint wasn't surprised that she knew his name. The police would've been called at the same time as the ambulance. "You didn't call anyone, did you?"

"Thought we'd see if you had to be admitted first. The doc will probably keep you overnight for observation then you'll be on your way again."

"But I _can't_ stay. Have to…"

Again the woman stopped his protest before it could get started. "What you have to do is relax and let us medical professionals do our job."

This time when he looked up, her features were more defined and he found her quite attractive. "Fine. One condition."

With a smile that belied his true physical state, he said, "Tell me your name."

She returned the smile. "Cassidy."

His laid his left hand over hers where it rested on her thigh. "How about dinner when the doc gets done with me?"

"That's two conditions."

He'd flustered her and used that to his advantage. "So have me deported, but _after_ our date."

"It's against regulations to date a patient."

"I won't _be_ your patient once you drop me off at the ER."

Chuckling came from Charlie. "Better say yes, Cass. You haven't been on a date in weeks."

Cassidy looked from Clint to Charlie and back, undecided. "You _do_ want me to leave Canada with a good impression, don't you?"

Clint saw the acquiescence in her blue eyes before she nodded. "Alright. I'll have dinner with you. I'm off the next three nights. We can firm up plans when you're released."

~~O~~

"Welcome to Mercy Hospital, Mr. Barton." Dr. Mullins, a man in his fifties, held a tablet in one hand as he read over the info transmitted by the paramedics and the monitors attached to his body while nurse Frank Newell attended. "Looks like you had a vasovagal syncope."

"Looks like?"

Frank grinned as he attached the blood pressure cuff around Clint's left wrist and laid it across his chest.

Mullins nodded. "You fainted, but we won't know why until we do some tests."

The man on the bed waited impatiently as Frank removed the BP cuff then crossed his arms over his chest. "Don't want tests."

"That's your prerogative, but we're still keeping you overnight for observation, and since you'll be here anyway, why not let us do the tests?"

"He's got a point, Agent Barton."

His expression stubborn, Clint shook his head. "I'll go see my doctor when I get home."

"As you wish. Frank? Please have Agent Barton admitted and get a full medical history. We'll talk medications later."

Mullins signed the chart and handed it to Frank. "Will you need anything from your hotel, Agent?"

~~O~~

More annoyed than he should be, Clint wanted to refuse to give Frank the information he needed for the doctor to treat him, but knew that would be childish so he yielded. "No. Not taking anything but Ambien for sleep, and not every night."

Frank made a note, handed the clipboard and pen to Clint and raised the head of the bed. "Fill that out and don't forget your doctors names and numbers in case we need to give them a call. And here on the last page, be sure to fill in an emergency contact. Initial in all the highlighted areas and sign here, here and here."

Clint held the pen poised over the page waiting for Frank to leave. "I can do this part alone, Frank."

He pointed to the call button. "If you need anything, just call."

Rolling his eyes, Clint waited until Frank pulled the curtains closed again before swinging his feet over the side. However, once he was upright, the dizziness and pain started again. It wasn't just his head this time. Now it was his hand, ribs, shoulders, feet and right leg. Deciding that Mullins was right to keep him overnight, he lay back down to finish filling out the admittance forms then set the clipboard aside with the pen and waited for Frank or one of the other nurses to come for it.

He'd just closed his eyes when he heard Loki's voice. Unlike the other times, it wasn't inside his head. The Asgardian was here in the hospital. Somehow he'd escaped from whatever prison he'd been sentenced to and had returned from his realm to claim Clint as his slave again. Behind the curtains, the blue light from his scepter glowed and Clint wondered how he could've gotten in without being seen. That headdress wasn't exactly subtle.

The tip of the scepter came through the curtains first then they parted and he was there, malice and cruelty glowing in his eyes. "I've been looking for you, Agent Barton. Once I've turned you to my will again, you and I will commit the most _glorious_ deeds. Soon, the Earth will bow to me as their leader."

Few things scared Clint, and having his mind turned inside out by Loki a second time was one of them. "Not gonna happen, a*****e!" Without the Tesseract to power his scepter, he wouldn't have the same strength as in their first encounter. Rolling out of bed, Clint reached for anything to use as a weapon, coming up with the clipboard. He sailed it at Loki's head, the Asgardian dodging to the side at the last second.

Loki trapped him between the beds, the scepter held out in front of him. Clint started to climb over the bed, but Loki was too fast. The scepter touched his chest and the world turned blue. Inside his mind, he screamed and raged trying to break the spell that had been cast over him a second time. Then he felt a sting in his backside, his eyes grew heavy and he fell to the floor, knocking over a tray of medical instruments.

~~O~~

Frank came running when Clint started calling out in his sleep. He parted the curtains, ducking when the clipboard sailed toward his head. "Agent Barton, please calm down!" He tried to get close enough to shake him awake, but he wouldn't allow it. Softening his voice to a soothing tone, he said, "We're here to help you, Clint."

Switching to the use of their patient's first name frequently helped calm them, but not this time. The American had to be having one _heck_ of a nightmare. He kept calling Frank Loki and saying he wouldn't let him take over his mind again. Frank remembered the name from the news reports of the alien invasion in New York last May. He also knew they had to keep Clint from hurting himself or anyone else. Touching the emergency button, Frank called for reinforcements. Dr. Mullins showed up shortly with two orderlies. Together, the three men held Clint down until Mullins could administer a sedative.

Frank directed the orderlies to put Clint on a stretcher while Mullins made arrangements for him to be taken to the psych ward for observation. The man had been through a bad time and had to be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. Frank wasn't a psychiatrist, but he'd seen his share of people come through the ER with similar symptoms. With what went on in New York, Frank didn't blame him. The doctors would talk to him and make a diagnosis.

With Clint sedated and restrained, Frank and the orderlies rolled the stretcher out of the emergency room and up to the secured psychiatric floor on eight. The man had to have a high tolerance for the sedative because he was already beginning to come out of it. He moaned, his arms and legs twitching, and his breathing increased as if he were in a fight for his life.

Producing the doctor's orders, Frank checked Clint in at the desk. Frank and Dave helped move Clint to the bed making sure the restraints were tight but not too much so.

"Really think he was in New York when it was attacked, Frank?"

"No idea, Dave. But he'll be in good hands here. Let's get back downstairs."

~~O~~

Clint awoke from a dreamless sleep to find himself in a darkened room. In trying to lift a hand to rub his throbbing head, he found that he'd been tied down. The dream of Loki returning to take over his mind again came back to him. He let his head fall back to the pillow and tugged at his restraints.

The last time this happened, Natasha had hit him really hard in the head. While his head hurt, it wasn't nearly as bad as that day, but he took a chance. "Natasha?"

The room wasn't familiar and he didn't feel the thrum of the engines so he couldn't be on the helicarrier. Then he remembered being taken to a hospital emergency room after fainting while on a tour of the falls. He had no idea what had happened after he finished filling out the admittance forms. He'd closed his eyes to rest for a few minutes and now he was here. "Hello? Anyone there? I could use some help!"

The door opened. A woman in green scrubs came in and turned on the light over his bed. "Well, it's about time you woke up, Agent Barton. How're you feeling?"

"Fuzzy."

"That's the sedative. It'll wear off in a couple of hours, provided we don't have to dose you again."

Lifting his head, Clint looked around. "What happened? Why am I in restraints?"

The nurse adjusted his pillow and covers then raised the head of his bed. "There was an incident in the ER.

"What sort of incident?"

"You attacked one of the nurses. It took Frank and two orderlies to hold you down so Dr. Mullins could give you a sedative."

If having nightmares on a consistent basis hadn't brought it home to him that he needed help, this did. "Sorry. Um, can I get these off now? I won't make trouble."

"Until you've been seen by the doctor, they have to stay on." Her voice and expression were apologetic. "He should be here soon."

"Uh…" Clint glanced at her badge. "Cindy, could you call my emergency contact and let him know what's happening?"

She nodded and left him alone.

~~O~~

"_Mr. Stark, sir._"

Rolling over onto his back, Stark stared up at the ceiling. Pepper stirred but didn't wake. "I left a wake-up call for half past the twelfth never, JARVIS. What do you _want?_"

"_There's been a call from Mercy Hospital in Niagara Falls regarding Agent Barton._"

That woke the billionaire faster than a bowl of cold water in the face. Stark threw off the covers and went to the closet for clean clothes. "What the hell is he doing in Niagara Falls?"

"_The nurse didn't say. Only that he was being kept for observation in the psychiatric ward._"

"Oh _great_. Hawkeye's finally gone nuts." With the shirt on but not buttoned, Stark put on his pants as he walked to the door, hopping first on one foot then the other. He grabbed socks and shoes then left as quietly as possible.

"_Shall I awaken Agent Romanoff and the others?_"

"No. Who else did you call?"

The AI seemed hesitant to answer. "_Director Fury, sir. Due to the nature of Agent Barton's work, I thought he would want to dispatch a SHIELD psychologist to handle the situation. Also, I do not believe that Agent Barton would want you _or_ the other members of his team to see him under these circumstances._"

"Call Fury and tell him I'm hitching a ride."

"_As you wish, sir._"

~~O~~

The comm buzzed and Naomi reached over to slap the snooze thinking it was her alarm clock. When it continued to sound, she turned on the light and hooked the headset over her ear. "Dr. Marks…Yes, of course, Agent Hill…I'll be right there."

Climbing out from under the covers, she rubbed her eyes as she went to the closet and took out clothes, dressing as quickly as possible and trying to wake up. In the few days since she'd been on the ship her sleeping schedule had been a mess. A glance at the clock told her it was late afternoon. She stepped into her shoes and gave her hair a cursory glance. Brushing the bangs out of her eyes, she left her quarters and hurried to the bridge. Still learning her way around, she didn't take any of the shortcuts that others had told her about, and arrived on the bridge within a few minutes a little out of breath.

Her father was standing in his usual place, feet planted shoulder width apart, one hand on either screen. They hadn't talked privately since that first day and had barely spoken professionally. "You asked to see me, Director?"

"Yes." He handed her a small tablet. "Here's your first official patient. You'll need to pack a bag."

She inhaled sharply when she saw the name, barely registering what Fury was saying. "Pack? Why?"

"You'll be traveling to Niagara Falls for a consult with the attending psychiatrist at Mercy Hospital."

His eyes bored into hers, but she was through being intimidated by her own father and stared boldly back. "You have two hours to become acquainted with the file of a patient who needs your help. Your ride will be leaving at 1900, Dr. Marks. Do _not_ be late."

Naomi clamped her lips together to keep from saying something she shouldn't in front of the staff. "Yes, sir."

~~O~~

The elevator came to a stop on the eighth floor. The guard who had escorted Naomi and Stark used a key to open the door. They stepped out, the door closing again behind them. A tall and very muscular orderly escorted them to the nurse's desk.

"Wait here please." He stomped off down the hall, knocked on a door and a moment later, a nurse came out. Naomi presumed it was the one she'd talked to on the phone.

She smiled and extended her hand. "I'm Cindy, the head psychiatric nurse. Please come this way and we'll go over the incident that precipitated Agent Barton's admittance."

"Of course." Naomi followed Cindy into an office behind the desk closing the door in Stark's face when he tried to follow.

To Terrance, Stark said, "I'll just wait here."

~~O~~

Clint rubbed his wrists after Cindy removed the restraints. She handed him a set of scrubs to sleep in and slippers for his feet. At the door, she turned. "You gave your word you wouldn't make trouble, Mr. Barton. I'm holding you to it."

As soon as the door closed behind her, Clint was on his feet. He went to the window to examine it as a way of escaping. Unfortunately, the builders had taken every precaution. Not only didn't the windows open, they were also made of non-breakable material and there were bars on the outside. He'd need more than was available to get out that way.

Climbing up on a chair, he tried to pull the cover from the air vent, but it wouldn't budge. Not that it mattered. He was too big to fit through the six by six opening anyway. So, the only way out was either the way he came in or the stairs. There had to be an emergency exit somewhere.

Going to the door, he peeked through the crack, but the nurse's desk was too far for him to see if anyone was there. Easing the door open, he slipped out, his sock covered feet silent on the tile floor. He crept down the hall until he found the stairwell, pausing to examine the alarm on the door. It was a simple enough matter for him to disable it.

He was just about to count himself home free when he heard someone clear their throat. Turning, he saw Cindy and an enormous orderly scowling at him. Motioning him to her, Cindy looked up into his face and he gave her a sheepish smile in return. He wasn't sure what to say because he'd been caught red-handed trying to escape.

"You _promised_, Agent Barton."

"Why don't I go back to my room?" He rocked on his heels waiting for a response, but she just pointed over her shoulder. When they reached his door, he turned to face her again. "How'd you know I was gone?"

She pushed the door open then followed him in. The orderly had gone on down the hall leaving them alone. "Terrance brought your dinner and that door is the first one people try to use to get out. It wouldn't have worked. The alarm is silent. You would've been caught before you reached the sixth floor."

When Cindy left, Clint went into the bathroom, emptied his bladder and changed into the blue scrubs. Sitting on the side of the bed, he removed the cover from his food, cringing. Unless he was on an op or it was a special occasion, food was food. But he wasn't sure what this was supposed to be. Too hungry to worry about it, he used the spoon to scoop up some of what he assumed were vegetables, chewing mechanically. He'd also been given a glass of cranberry juice, but he didn't care for it so he poured it down the drain.

A couple of hours later, Cindy knocked on the door. "Come in."

"Just wanted to let you know that your doctor is on the way up."

"McNeil or Hoffman?" Not that it would've mattered. Whatever happened while he was in the emergency room, he needed help. He'd take whoever SHIELD sent.

Cindy smiled. "The name she gave was Marks."

Clint grinned ruefully. "I suppose it's no longer a secret that I'm being treated for PTSD."

Leaning forward conspiratorially, the nurse said, "Wasn't a secret."

Terrance knocked on the door then stuck his head in drawing Cindy from their conversation. She stepped into the hall pulling the door closed behind her. Clint sat on the side of the bed tapping his feet on the floor waiting for the new SHIELD shrink to make her way down the hall.

After twenty minutes of no shrink, Clint got up to pace, rubbing the back of his neck and feeling the tension in the muscles. His headache was gone, though the memory of it lingered like soreness after a muscle cramp. He poured a glass of water, drank it down and had just poured a second glass when a tentative knock announced a visitor. Without turning, he said, "Come in."

The door opened then soft footsteps carried his visitor into the room. She closed the door and a moment later, the smell of cherries reached him. His eyes narrowed in shock, his hand clenching on the glass just before she spoke.

"Hello, Clint."

His spine stiffened at the voice from the past. A voice he hadn't heard in nearly twelve years, but would never forget. He carefully set the glass on the table and turned, looking at the face of the woman he'd once loved more than life itself. "Naomi."

**TBC**

**A/N: **Part three will begin tomorrow. Stay tuned.

~Sandy


End file.
